WHILE poring Antiquarians search the ground Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a Seer, Takes fire: -- The men that have been reappear; Romans for travel girt, for business gowned; And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned, In festal glee: why not? For fresh and clear, As if its hues were of the passing year, Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that mound Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins, Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil: Or a fierce impress issues with its foil Of tenderness -- the Wolf, whose suckling Twins The unlettered ploughboy pities when he wins The casual treasure from the furrowed soil. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 25 by THOMAS CAMPION PHANTOM by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE GRASS FINGERS by ANGELINA WELD GRIMKE THE BRONCHO THAT WOULD NOT BE BROKEN by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY ON THE SLAIN COLLEGIANS by HERMAN MELVILLE |