Poetry Archives

The songs I made from joy of earth
         In wanton wandering,
Are rapturous with Maytime mirth
         And ectasy of Spring.
But all the songs I sing today
         Take tediously the ear:
Novemberishly dark are they
         With mortuary fear.
         
For half a century has gone
         Since first I rang a rhyme;
And that is long to linger on
         The tolerance of Time.
This blue-veined hand with which I write
         Yet answers to my will;
Though four-score years I count to-night
         I am unsilent still.

“Senile old fool!” I hear you say;
         “Beside the dying fire
You huddle and stiff-fingered play
         Your tired and tinny lyre.”
Well, though your patience I may try,
         Bear with me yet awhile,
And though you scorn my singing I
         Will thank you with a smile.

For I such soul-delighting joy
         Have found in simple rhyme,
Since first a happy-hearted boy
         I coaxed a word to chime,
That ere I tryst with Mother Earth
         Let from my heart arise
A song of youth and starry mirth . . .
         Then close my eyes.