|Lest you leave your
longings in the sunshine
Unprotected from night's bitter shade,
Now you may take them on the lunar wind,
Alive to phantoms vivid as your face
Reveling in front of Reason's door.
Nor could your own inventions offer more,
Even those transfigured from your race,
Which, privatized, seem downsized, somehow thinned.
Yet here is all the wealth the past has made,
Each relic well preserved in ancient brine,
A treasure-trove of comedy and grace
Resting where your faith would else be blind.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon