The songs I made from joy of earth br In wanton wandering, br Are rapturous with Maytime mirth br And ectasy of Spring. br But all the songs I sing today br Take tediously the ear: br Novemberishly dark are they br With mortuary fear. br br For half a century has gone br Since first I rang a rhyme; br And that is long to linger on br The tolerance of Time. br This blue-veined hand with which I write br Yet answers to my will; br Though four-score years I count to-night br I am unsilent still. br br "Senile old fool!" I hear you say; br "Beside the dying fire br You huddle and stiff-fingered play br Your tired and tinny lyre." br Well, though your patience I may try, br Bear with me yet awhile, br And though you scorn my singing I br Will thank you with a smile. br br For I such soul-delighting joy br Have found in simple rhyme, br Since first a happy-hearted boy br I coaxed a word to chime, br That ere I tryst with Mother Earth br Let from my heart arise br A song of youth and starry mirth . . . br Then close my eyes.