NEARING THE MERIDIAN
(To M. E. W.)
I dream to-night of happy childhood days;
I see two humble homes and thrill with joy;
The years come back when I was but a boy,
And you had ringlets for the gods to praise:
The old Old Swing, the fields of golden maize;
The moving pictures in the clouds above;
The mating birds, their nests, their songs of love—
All this, dear Lord, through years of mist and haze!
And then I turn and look beyond the Shade,
And those who wrought for us are waiting there:
Our mothers with their crowns of silver hair,
And radiant smiles of love that will not fade;
Our fathers with the keys to all the creeds
Are there still strong in faith and pure in deeds.
OUR PILGRIMAGE
(To the Canterbury Club)
The merry band that started long ago
Upon their journey to a-Becket's shrine,
Were happy that a poet's pen divine
Inspired by all a genial wit can know,
Or sympathetic human heart bestow,
Recorded in immortal rhythmic line,
As sweet as breath of old Provencal wine,
Their pilgrim tales and songs of joy and woe.
We start to-night upon our pilgrimage,
Who worship at a holier shrine than they—
The living temple of the sacred muse:
May she who is our patron saint infuse,
Illume our souls; and raise some Pen, I pray,
To leave the world a noble heritage.