A Modern Voice Cannot Compare The Deeds Poem by James Whitworth

A modern voice cannot compare the deeds
That lay unread, drowned by compound degrees;
Exampled in archaism that seeds
The time-lined though less travelled circling seas.

For those whom ever question this design,
And yet remain to all entreaties blind,
Your divers dampened words of soft decline
Spell no more than a wooden and resigned

Acceptance of a spot-lit instant’s breath
Inside the vacuumed vogue so called success;
Recanted then reposed beside the death
Of one more favoured moment’s choked regress.

It is with confidences such I can,
In conscience fair, harvest the ancient land;
Abide not in domains of common man;
On even terms, turn down your tendered hand.