I have looked at them long, <br />My eyes blur; sourceless light <br />Keeps them forever young <br />Before our ageing sight. <br /> <br />You see them-too strict forms <br />Of will, the secret dignity <br />Of our dissolute storms; <br />They grow too bright to be. <br /> <br />What were they like? What mark <br />Can signify their charm? <br />They never saw the dark; <br />Rigid, they never knew alarm. <br /> <br />Do not the scene rehearse! <br />The perfect eyes enjoin <br />A contemptuous verse; <br />We speak the crabbed line. <br /> <br />Immaculate race! to yield <br />Us final knowledge set <br />In a cold frieze, a field <br />Of war but no blood let. <br /> <br />Are they quite willing, <br />Do they ask to pose, <br />Naked and simple, chilling <br />The very wind's nose? <br /> <br />They ask us how to live! <br />We answer: Again try <br />Being the drops we sieve. <br />What death it is to die! <br /> <br />Therefore because they nod, <br />Being too full of us, <br />I look at the turned sod <br />Where it is perilous <br /> <br />And yawning all the same <br />As if we knew them not <br />And history had no name- <br />No need to name the spot!<br /><br />Allen Tate<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-romantic-traditionists/
