Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/374

346 I know you hold it for a fault

That I bend with burdening years,

Dull of eye, and dull of ears;

That this poll

Whitens like a flax-wigged doll.

'T is a fault, you think; but wait!

Something marches, men call Fate;

If you, boy! succeed in keeping

Safe from sweep of Old Time's reaping,

You'll be the bent-back one that hobbles

Over the cobbles—

Wondering why, all young at heart,

With the old you're pushed apart.

TO JACOB A. RIIS

MUSIC AND FRIENDSHIP

FRIENDSHIP

the happy first time

That we met—and wondered,

I from thee and thou from me

Ne'er in soul were sundered.