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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.
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.
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