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.
Cookies on Poetry Cove