Congress of archaeological societies

This is the antiquaries' day, they have gathered in London—
Leaving the museum in the quiet country town,
The gaunt rectory, dank amid rook-haunted elms:
The Georgian manor, stuccoed and pedimented;
Dusty lawyer's office, discreet cathedral close.

Sipping tea after the meeting, eagerly reaching for biscuits,
Faces flushed, voices high in querulous debate;
Faded eyes that saw Pitt-Rivers and Greenwell
Peer excitedly at the crumbling potsherd
Unwrapped shakily, fingers rustling the tissue.

Huddled together, vaguely afraid, vaguely distrustful
Of the young men who are turning their hobby into a science—
Conscious that they were the sowers, yet doubting the harvest,
Watching the end of an age and the unknown beginning:
Once a year the old people see their children.

⋜1937