Late eyes detect the fading rays,
Of ancient poets sated woeing.
Sadly, gladly, present days
Maintain, once more, his posting.
Pleasant hours, when thought, seem settled
Back in years like favored pages
In dreary books, more dreary in succession;
When a stage, re-set through-out the ages,
(The piling mass of humanity) again combusts,
And spews yet another fire-storm of deed
Chaotic, bored to their hollow core, nauseous
In the honeyed agonies of their vain lusts.
Still so, the poets mirror held to face,
Assure them they had time and place.

08/14/2011

Author's Note: Poets are needed always...in every age.

Posted on 08/15/2011
Copyright © 2025 Austin Halling-Rowe