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.