To John Townsend Trowbridge
Gay Summer sees the flowering Of buds that were the gift of Spring; And Winter counts the ripened sheaves That Autumn harvested. Who grieves When he at length has won the race, Or backward then his way would trace? Oh, honored Poet, Wit, and Sage, This birthday marks an open page, And here before its record's writ, These words we would inscribe on it. "Thou, upon whom thy years fourscore So lightly sit, thou hast a store Of memories such as they alone May have whose hearts all truth have known. Now may this year bring thee no less Than all the past of happiness!" (On his eightieth birthday.)
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"Gay Summer sees the flowering..."
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