I like the poems of yesteryear
The poems of ‘twas, and yon, and ere,
The poems whose ol' archaic tongue
Was in its prime, and lo, e'er young.
Their tales were spun of days of yore
In silhouettes and shadows more,
Of wondrous things and myths of fame
Plucked from a fair and dainty dame.
She softly sang the chorus sweet
And gathered sparrows at her feet
And oh, she sang it o'er and o'er,
To us, who then, this poem's for.
What e'er betide, I then must say
I like to let her have her way
To lure me to that time beyond
Inside the poems of which I'm fond.
I then embrace her bosom dear
And hold her close and tender near,
As I recite with her the rhyme
That thither to I pulled from time,
And lay my head upon her breast
To find some solace and some rest.
Such are the poems of yesteryear
The poems of ‘twas, and yon, and ere.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem