To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence

I who am dead a thousand years,     And wrote this sweet archaic song,     Send you my words for messengers     The way I shall not pass along.     I care not if you bridge the seas,     Or ride secure the cruel sky,     Or build consummate palaces     Of metal or of masonry.     But have you wine and music still,     And statues and a bright-eyed love,     And foolish thoughts of good and ill,     And prayers to them who sit above?     How shall we conquer?    Like a wind     That falls at eve our fancies blow,     And old Moeonides the blind     Said it three thousand years ago.     O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,     Student of our sweet English tongue,     Read out my words at night, alone:     I was a poet, I was young.     Since I can never see your face,     And never shake you by the hand,     I send my soul through time and space     To greet you.    You will understand.