RETROSPECTION.
When the hunter-star Orion
( Or, it may be, Charles his Wain )
Tempts the tiny elves to try on
All their little tricks again;
When the earth is calmly breathing
Draughts of slumber undefiled,
And the sire, unused to teething,
Seeks for errant pins his child;
When the moon is on the ocean,
And our little sons and heirs
From a natural emotion
Wish the luminary theirs;
Then a feeling hard to stifle,
Even harder to define,
Makes me feel I‘ d give a trifle
For the days of Auld Lang Syne.
James — for we have been as brothers
( Are, to speak correctly, twins ),
Went about in one another's
Clothing, bore each other's sins,
Rose together, ere the pearly
Tint of morn had left the heaven,
And retired ( absurdly early )
Simultaneously at seven —
James, the days of yore were pleasant.
Sweet to climb for alien pears
Till the irritated peasant
Came and took us unawares;
Sweet to devastate his chickens,
As the ambush'd catapult
Scattered, and the very dickens
Was the natural result;
Sweet to snare the thoughtless rabbit;
Break the next-door neighbour's pane;
Cultivate the smoker's habit
On the not-innocuous cane;
Leave the exercise unwritten;
Systematically cut
Morning school, to plunge the kitten
In his bath, the water-butt.
Age, my James, that from the cheek of
Beauty steals its rosy hue,
Has not left us much to speak of:
But‘ tis not for this I rue.
Beauty with its thousand graces,
Hair and tints that will not fade,
You may get from many places
Practically ready-made.
No; it is the evanescence
Of those lovelier tints of Hope —
Bubbles, such as adolescence
Joys to win from melted soap —
Emphasizing the conclusion
That the dreams of Youth remain
Castles that are An delusion
( Castles, that's to say, in Spain ).
Age thinks‘ fit,’ and I say‘ fiat.’
Here I stand for Fortune's butt,
As for Sunday swains to shy at
Stands the stoic coco-nut.
If you wish it put succinctly,
Gone are all our little games;
But I thought I‘ d say distinctly
What I feel about it, James.