…from the quills of the dead white poets
Osip Mandelshtam 1891 -1938
I had not tried the wine that ancients made, And had not heard of Ossian’s old tune; So why, on earth, I seem to see the glade, And, in the skies -- the bloody Scottish moon? And the call-over of a raven with a harp I faintly hear in that silence, full of fright, And, spread by winds, the winter woolen scarves Of knights are flashing in the red moonlight! I had received the blessing to inherit Another singer’s ever rambling dreams; For kin’s and neighbor’s spiritual merits To have despise we’re absolutely free. And not a lone treasure, I suppose, Will pass grandchildren and to others fling, Again a scald will ancient songs compose, And, as his own, will again them sing.