Classic Poem

There is a modern term that much would mean,
And gives our orators a mighty peg:
This century laid it like a precious egg,
For watchword against retrospective spleen:
But the white oval none will hatch, I ween.
Grammarians with their power on the last leg
Treat it as smugglers the suspicious keg
At midnight when the Coastguard hot are seen.
Startle the sleeping hamlets by the beach:
From globe to globe: let commonplaces breed:
When nations retrograde they are undone.
But never until all men march as one,
And it is visible in the Soul of each,
Can I accept Progression as a creed.