Man and Poet

True man and poet, in whose verse is seen
The golden tints of autumn and the thought
That links these unto man and to his lot,
That passes as the shadow that has been;
Thine eyes have sentinelled the changeful scene
In which we live and pass, as doth the mote
Within the beam, yet ever quick to note
Hope bending over graves whose grass is green.
There be far louder voices on the hill
Of which Fame shrills her trumpet. Let it be.
Calm only follows when the clamours end,
And in that tender calm thou singest still;
But sweeter than thy singing unto me
Is this—the boon of calling thee my friend.