HIS laurels fresh from song and lay, Romance, art, science, rich in all, And young of heart, how dare we say We keep his seventieth festival? No sense is here of loss or lack; Before his sweetness and his light The dial holds its shadow back, The charmed hours delay their flight. His still the keen analysis Of men and moods, electric wit, Free play of mirth, and tenderness To heal the slightest wound from it. And his the pathos touching all Life's sins and sorrows and regrets, Its hopes and fears, its final call And rest beneath the violets. His sparkling surface scarce betrays The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled, The wisdom of the latter days, And tender memories of the old. What shapes and fancies, grave or gay, Before us at his bidding come! The Treadmill tramp, the One-Horse Shay, The dumb despair of Elsie's doom! The tale of Avis and the Maid, The plea for lips that cannot speak, The holy kiss that Iris laid On Little Boston's pallid cheek! Long may he live to sing for us His sweetest songs at evening time, And, like his Chambered Nautilus, To holier heights of beauty climb! Though now unnumbered guests surround The table that he rules at will, Its Autocrat, however crowned, Is but our friend and comrade still. The world may keep his honored name, The wealth of all his varied powers; A stronger claim has love than fame, And he himself is only ours! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: THE VILLAGE ATHEIST by EDGAR LEE MASTERS BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY by ROBERT BROWNING AULD LANG SYNE by ROBERT BURNS DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK; A TRUE STORY by ROBERT BURNS ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE by FITZ-GREENE HALLECK PRISONED IN WINDSOR, HE RECOUNTETH HIS PLEASURE THERE PASSED by HENRY HOWARD |