1

I rake no coffined clay, nor publish wide

The resurrection of departed pride.

Safe in their ancient crannies, dark and deep,

Let kings and conquerors, saints and soldiers sleep--

Late in the world,--too late perchance for fame,

Just late enough to reap abundant blame,--

I choose a novel theme, a bold abuse

Of critic charters, an unlaurelled Muse.

2

Old mouldy men and books and names and lands

Disgust my reason and defile my hands.

I had as lief respect an ancient shoe,

As love old things for age, and hate the new.

I spurn the Past, my mind disdains its nod,

Nor kneels in homage to so mean a God.

I laugh at those who, while they gape and gaze,

The bald antiquity of China praise.

Youth is (whatever cynic tubs pretend)

The fault that boys and nations soonest mend.