We look for signs of greatness in our age:
We scan each face, and look into each heart.
(‘Tis fun to praise, but more to tear apart.)
As probing takes us to the printed page,
The work of scholar, journalist, or sage,
Or bust by sculptor, or some pictured art–
We shake our heads: it’s not conformed to chart;
It fits perhaps the world, but not its gauge.
And then yon found a work so far ahead,
It stood above all others round about.
“But hold–this man is living still, you said.
So this our scale; We cannot highly tout
A man, nor call him great until he’s dead.
No immortal, he, who lives to find it out!
by Ray Romine Sunday, November 21, 1943
