A LETTER TO A FRIEND

The past is like a story

I have listened to in dreams

That vanished in the glory

Of the Morning's early gleams;

And — at my shadow glancing —

I feel a loss of strength,

As the Day of Life advancing

Leaves it shorn of half its length.

But it's all in vain to worry

At the rapid race of Time —

And he flies in such a flurry

When I trip him with a rhyme,

I'll bother him no longer

Than to thank you for the thought

That “my fame is growing stronger

As you really think it ought.”

And though I fall below it,

I might know as much of mirth

To live and die a poet

Of unacknowledged worth;

For Fame is but a vagrant —

Though a loyal one and brave,

And his laurels ne'er so fragrant

As when scattered o'er the grave.