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Small, busy
flames play through the fresh-laid coals,
And their
faint cracklings o'er our silence creep
Like whispers
of the household gods that keep
A gentle empire o'er
fraternal souls.
And while for rhymes I search around
the poles,
Your eyes are fixed, as in poetic sleep,
Upon the lore so voluble and deep,
That aye at fall
of night our care condoles.
This is your birthday,
Tom, and I rejoice
That thus it passes smoothly,
quietly:
Many such eves of gently whispering noise
May we together pass, and calmly try
What are this
world's true joys, -ere the great Voice
From its fair
face shall bid our spirits fly.
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