Felix Antonius

To-day, my friend is seventy-five; He tells his tale with no regret, His brave old eyes are steadfast yet, His heart the lightest heart alive.

He sees behind him green and wide The pathway of his pilgrim years; He sees the shore, and dreadless hears The whisper of the creeping tide.

For out of all his days, not one Has passed and left its unlaid ghost To seek a light for ever lost, Or wail a deed for ever done.

So for reward of life-long truth He lives again, as good men can, Redoubling his allotted span With memories of a stainless youth.