THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days Have brought another Festa round to you, You can n't refuse a loving-cup of praise From friends the fleeting years have bound to you.

Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad Boy, Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian, And many more, to wish you birthday joy, And sunny hours, and sky cerulean!

Your children all, they hurry to your den, With wreaths of honour they have won for you, To merry-make your threescore years and ten. You, old? Why, life has just begun for you!

There's many a reader whom your silver songs And crystal stories cheer in loneliness. What though the newer writers come in throngs? You're sure to keep your charm of only-ness.

You do your work with careful, loving touch,— An artist to the very core of you,— You know the magic spell of “not-too-much ": We read,— and wish that there was more of you.

And more there is: for while we love your books Because their subtle skill is part of you; We love you better, for our friendship looks Behind them to the human heart of you.