O LIVING image of eternal youth!
Wrought with such large simplicity of truth
That, now the pattern’s made and on the shelf,
Each vows he might have cut it for himself;
Nor marvels that we sang of empty days,
Of rank-grown laurel and unprunëd bays,
While yet, in all this lonely Crusoe land,
The Trilby footprint had not touched the sand.
Here ’s a new carelessness of Titan play.
Here ’s Ariel’s witchery to lead the way
In such sweet artifice of dainty wit
That men shall die with imitating it.
Now every man’s old grief turns in its bed,
And bleeds a drop or two, divinely red;
Fair baby joys do rouse them, one by one,
Dancing a lightsome round, though love be done;
And Memory takes off her frontlet dim
To bind a bit of tinsel round the rim.
Dreams come to life, and faint foreshadowings
Flutter anear us on reluctant wings.
But not one pang, nay, though ’t were gall of bliss,
And not one such awakening would we miss.
O comrades, here ’s true stuff! ours to adore,
And swear we ’ll carve our cherry-stones no more.