The chance is the remotest
Of its going much longer unnoticed
That I'm not keeping pace
With the headlong human race.
And some of them may mind
My staying back behind
To take life at a walk
In philosophic talk;
Though as yet they only smile
At how slow I do a mile,
With tolerant reproach
For me as an Old Slow Coach.
"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).
Pages
▼
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Old Slow Coach
From Robert Frost, Some Science Fiction: