To the King of Greece
The past attempts to speak. It tries to talk
With words and other ruined things like stones
That lie in heaps or carved acanthus stalk
Of leaves in marble. Sometimes vellum tones
Come up from opened scrolls. Occasionally
Our history gives a golden squawk, as when
“The face of Agamemnon” tries to see
Us through its sealed up eyes, we modern men
Who’ll rot beneath the satin lids of coffins, not
With heavy metal masks to hide our truths.
Besides, who’ll come to look for you, a jot
Or tittle to antiquarian sleuths?
..No Schliemann hovers in the future’s skies
….For sending telegrams about our eyes.
