The poem
Said he: "I'll dive deep in the Past, And write a book of direful days When summer skies were overcast With smoke of humble hearths ablaze; When War was rampant in the land, And poor folk cowered in the night, While ruin gaped on every hand - of ravishing and wrath I'll write."
Ten years he toiled to write his book, Yet he was happy all the while; The world he willingly forsook T live alone in hermit style. In garden sanctuaried sweet, Full favoured by the steadfast sun, plunged in the Past, a life complete He lived. . . . At last his work was done.
A worthy book that few would read Yet all would praise - each precious page Starred with some truth the rare would heed, The vivid images of an age, Then blinking, to the world again He came a sage, remote, austere . . . When lo! his eyes were smote with flame, The wail of war was in his ear.
He shrank and sighed: "Oh can it be These old iniquities prevail! That sons of men are still unfree And time repeats her sorry tale!" So with a long sad gaze and last, Seeking his secret garden nook, He slipped again into the Past To live - and write another book.