I rake no coffined clay, nor publish wide <br />The resurrection of departed pride. <br />Safe in their ancient crannies, dark and deep, <br />Let kings and conquerors, saints and soldiers sleep-- <br />Late in the world,--too late perchance for fame, <br />Just late enough to reap abundant blame,-- <br />I choose a novel theme, a bold abuse <br />Of critic charters, an unlaurelled Muse. <br /> <br />Old mouldy men and books and names and lands <br />Disgust my reason and defile my hands. <br />I had as lief respect an ancient shoe, <br />As love old things for age, and hate the new. <br />I spurn the Past, my mind disdains its nod, <br />Nor kneels in homage to so mean a God. <br />I laugh at those who, while they gape and gaze, <br />The bald antiquity of China praise. <br />Youth is (whatever cynic tubs pretend) <br />The fault that boys and nations soonest mend.<br /><br />Ralph Waldo Emerson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-day/
