I knew my Troy. Folks warned this boy it was mere tale And nothing more. I bore their warning, with a smile, While all the while my spade Was delving Homer's gardened sun and shade. Gods! Never mind! cried friends: Dumb Homer's blind! How can he show you ruins that n'er were? I'm sure, I said. He speaks. I hear. I'm sure. Their advice spurned I dug when all their backs were turned, For I had learned when I was eight: Doom was my Fate, they said. The world would end! That day I panicked, thought it true, That you and I and they Would never see the light of the next day - Yet that day came. With shame I saw it come, recalled my doubt And wondered what those Doomsters were about? From that day on I kept a private joy, And did not let them sense My buried Troy; For if they had, what scorns, Derision, jokes; I sealed my City deep From all those folks; And, growing, dug each day. What did I find And given as gift by Homer old and Homer blind? One Troy? No, ten! Ten Troys? No, two times ten! Three dozen! And each a richer, finer, brighter cousin! All in my flesh and blood, And each one true.
