The songs I made from joy of earth
 In wanton wandering,
Are rapturous with Maytime mirth
 And ectasy of Spring.
But all the songs I sing today
 Take tediously the ear:
Novemberishly dark are they
 With mortuary fear.
 
For half a century has gone
 Since first I rang a rhyme;
And that is long to linger on
 The tolerance of Time.
This blue-veined hand with which I write
 Yet answers to my will;
Though four-score years I count to-night
 I am unsilent still.

"Senile old fool!" I hear you say;
 "Beside the dying fire
You huddle and stiff-fingered play
 Your tired and tinny lyre."
Well, though your patience I may try,
 Bear with me yet awhile,
And though you scorn my singing I
 Will thank you with a smile.

For I such soul-delighting joy
 Have found in simple rhyme,
Since first a happy-hearted boy
 I coaxed a word to chime,
That ere I tryst with Mother Earth
 Let from my heart arise
A song of youth and starry mirth . . .
 Then close my eyes.