In Two-Hundred Years - Sonnet 54

The elegance of wonder is a myth,

A new, forgotten tale of ancient heights

Built squarely on the shoulders of the fights

Our dear ancestors moved their mountains with;

The spark of innovation in the eye

Is surely not a flutter in the mind

Of weaned necessity we hope to find

In peaceful, meditative stimuli;

But, rather, in the madman, heathen, king,

Who, in their quest to grasp some sanity,

Reveals the thief of joy as vanity

And thus forsakes the judgment those will bring

That cannot see the light of day beyond

The fear of reputation, word, and bond.