The gray-blue eyes, I see them still,
  The gallant front with brown o’erhung,
The shape alert, the wit at will,
  The phrase that stuck, but never stung.

You keep your youth as yon Scotch firs,
  Whose gaunt line my horizon hems,
Though twilight all the lowland blurs,
  Hold sunset in their ruddy stems.

You with the elders?  Yes, ’tis true,
  But in no sadly literal sense,
With elders and coevals too,
  Whose verb admits no preterite tense.

Master alike in speech and song
  Of fame’s great antiseptic—­Style,
You with the classic few belong
  Who tempered wisdom with a smile.

Outlive us all!  Who else like you
  Could sift the seedcorn from our chaff,
And make us with the pen we knew
  Deathless at least in epitaph?

IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYYAM

These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were bred,
Each softly lucent as a rounded moon;
The diver Omar plucked them from their bed,
Fitzgerald strung them on an English thread.

Fit rosary for a queen, in shape and hue,
When Contemplation tells her pensive beads
Of mortal thoughts, forever old and new. 
Fit for a queen?  Why, surely then for you!

The moral?  Where Doubt’s eddies toss and twirl
Faith’s slender shallop till her footing reel,
Plunge:  if you find not peace beneath the whirl,
Groping, you may like Omar grasp a pearl.

ON RECEIVING A COPY OF MR. AUSTIN DOBSON’S ‘OLD WORLD IDYLLS’

I

At length arrived, your book I take
To read in for the author’s sake;
Too gray for new sensations grown,
Can charm to Art or Nature known
This torpor from my senses shake?

Hush! my parched ears what runnels slake? 
Is a thrush gurgling from the brake? 
Has Spring, on all the breezes blown,
At length arrived?

Long may you live such songs to make,
And I to listen while you wake,
With skill of late disused, each tone
Of the Lesboum, barbiton,
At mastery, through long finger-ache,
At length arrived.

II

As I read on, what changes steal
O’er me and through, from head to heel? 
A rapier thrusts coat-skirt aside,
My rough Tweeds bloom to silken pride,—­
Who was it laughed?  Your hand, Dick Steele!

Down vistas long of clipt charmille
Watteau as Pierrot leads the reel;
Tabor and pipe the dancers guide
As I read on.

While in and out the verses wheel
The wind-caught robes trim feet reveal,
Lithe ankles that to music glide,
But chastely and by chance descried;
Art?  Nature?  Which do I most feel
As I read on?

TO C.F.  BRADFORD