Ubi Sunt

I miss the things I never had
And dream in days gone by;
I long for summer nights beneath
An ever-planeless sky.

I want for honest craftsmanship
And knowledge bought for free:
I strive to resurrect such
Unpretentious artistry.

I hunger on the final page
Of every ancient script,
And deconstruct until I breach
Its undefilèd crypt.

I revel in the consciousness
Of such philosophy,
And feel myself transported by
The Hand of History.

But O! The hand becomes a fist,
And from my dream I waken:
Aware again of time and place
And how my soul’s forsaken.

My heart belongs to yesteryear
With Dryden, Keats and Pope:
To live as long, in memory,
Is my sincerest hope.



By L.R. Chapman
from Modern Melancholy, 2013