Most slavishly I ape the past, its tortured forms
And antique phrases.  I reanimate the gods
Which so bored readers even in that era,
Twenty decades gone, when poetry, in fact,
Had lost the vigor which it once had had,
And uninspired neurasthenics ruled.  They're
The ones I ape with hope that I can make the art
Again the soporific only men in bowler hats
And women holding parasols could love.