Of comfort; and through a long tract of years,
Wearing a bouquet in his button-hole;
Once playing a thousand nameless little games,
Till communistic cobblers gleeful danced,
And democratic delvers hissed, "Ha! ha!"
Who dared foreshadow,, then, for his own son
A looser life, one less distraught than his?
Or how could Dilkland, dreaming of his sons,
Have hoped less for them than some heritance
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,