To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence
by James Elroy Flecker
I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.
I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.
But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?
How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.
O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.
Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.
John Heath Stubbs
I who am dead a thousand years
And wrote this crabbed post-classic screed
Transmit it to you—though with doubts
That you possess the skill to read,
Who, with your pink mutated eyes,
Crouched in the radioactive swamp,
Beneath a leaking shelter, scan
These lines beside a flickering lamp;
Or in some plastic paradise
Of pointless gadgets, if you dwell,
And finding all your wants supplied
Do not suspect it may be Hell.
But does our art of words survive—
Do bards within that swamp rehearse
Tales of the twentieth century,
Nostalgic, in rude epic verse?
Or do computers churn it out—
In lieu of songs of War and Love,
Neat slogans by the State endorsed
And prayers to them, who sit above?
How shall we conquer—all our pride
Fades like a summer sunset's glow:
Who will read me when I am gone—
For who reads Elroy Flecker now?
Unless, dear poet, you were born,
Like me, a deal behind your time,
There is no reason you should read,
And much less understand, this rhyme.
I hope your day is filled with love, laughter, and inspiration. Be well my friends.
