Page:The man against the sky; a book of poems.djvu/68

 A little on the round if you insist, For now, God save the mark, he's growing old; He's five and forty, and to hear him talk These days you'd call him eighty; then you'd add More years to that. He's old enough to be The father of a world, and so he is. "Ben, you're a scholar, what's the time of day?" Says he; and there shines out of him again An aged light that has no age or station— The mystery that's his—a mischievous Half-mad serenity that laughs at fame For being won so easy, and at friends Who laugh at him for what he wants the most, And for his dukedom down in Warwickshire;— By which you see we're all a little jealous. . . . Poor Greene! I fear the color of his name Was even as that of his ascending soul;