To My Aging Friends

It is no winter night comes down Upon our hearts, dear friends of old; But a May evening, softly brown, Whose wind is rather cold. We are not, like yon sad-eyed West, Phantoms that brood o'er Time's dust-hoard, We are like yon Moon—in mourning drest, But gazing on her lord. Come nearer to the hearth, sweet friends, Draw nigher, closer, hand and chair; Ours is a love that never ends, For God is dearest there! We will not talk about the past, We will not ponder ancient pain; Those are but deep foundations cast For peaks of soaring gain! We, waiting Dead, will warm our bones At our poor smouldering earthly fire; And talk of wide-eyed living ones Who have what we desire. O Living, ye know what is death— We, by and by, shall know it too! Humble, with bated, hoping breath, We are coming fast to you!