Old Prints
I
TURN this sheaf of yellowed prints and see
Our America of another century:
The march of time depicted clear and true,
The joys and sorrows that a people knew
Who filled the village streets or tramped the roads;
Their customs, their inventions and abodes
Are captured in these lithographs, their lives
Kept chronicled by Currier and Ives.
Hung upon countless walls of other days
Romantic lovers went, robe-wrapped in sleighs.
The drunkard’s downfall has been plainly shown,
The hunter faced his fighting foe alone,
The fire engines puffed their smoky way,
The sinking ships went down in crashing spray,
Prim men and women skated in the park,
A darkened parlour—where two lovers spark,
Their quarrels, their reconciliations told . . .
A million of these quaint old prints were sold,
Were loved, and then discarded for awhile,
Grown so old-fashioned, they provoked a smile.
Today, collectors, spending without stint,
Are glad to pay small fortunes for one print.
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