On Becoming Obsolete
Shall we once more, in mountains of our thought,
Gaze down upon the vastness of our ground,
And know that for the meadows newly sought,
The flowering fields shall not by us be found?
Shall we recall that bronze took place of stone,
And then in turn to iron did yield its way;
That ships of sail no more the oceans own,
And brilliant sunlight lasts for but a day?
Shall we, in embers of the distant past,
Remember living forms that brought our dawn,
But, by that gift of birth, their fate was cast,
And we the reason that their time has gone?
O, things shall pass, and it were ever thus:
'Tis more bitter, though, now that it is us.
Copyright © Jerrold Prothero | Year Posted 2025
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