Retrospection.

After C. S. C.      When the hunter-star Orion         (Or, it may be, Charles his Wain)      Tempts the tiny elves to try on          All their little tricks again;      When the earth is calmly breathing          Draughts of slumber undefiled,      And the sire, unused to teething,          Seeks for errant pins his child;      When the moon is on the ocean,          And our little sons and heirs      From a natural emotion          Wish the luminary theirs;      Then a feeling hard to stifle,          Even harder to define,      Makes me feel I 'd give a trifle          For the days of Auld Lang Syne.      James--for we have been as brothers         (Are, to speak correctly, twins),      Went about in one another's          Clothing, bore each other's sins,      Rose together, ere the pearly          Tint of morn had left the heaven,      And retired (absurdly early)          Simultaneously at seven--      James, the days of yore were pleasant.          Sweet to climb for alien pears      Till the irritated peasant          Came and took us unawares;      Sweet to devastate his chickens,          As the ambush'd catapult      Scattered, and the very dickens          Was the natural result;      Sweet to snare the thoughtless rabbit;          Break the next-door neighbour's pane;      Cultivate the smoker's habit          On the not-innocuous cane;      Leave the exercise unwritten;          Systematically cut      Morning school, to plunge the kitten          In his bath, the water-butt.      Age, my James, that from the cheek of          Beauty steals its rosy hue,      Has not left us much to speak of:          But 'tis not for this I rue.      Beauty with its thousand graces,          Hair and tints that will not fade,      You may get from many places          Practically ready-made.      No; it is the evanescence          Of those lovelier tints of Hope--      Bubbles, such as adolescence          Joys to win from melted soap--      Emphasizing the conclusion          That the dreams of Youth remain      Castles that are An delusion         (Castles, that's to say, in Spain).      Age thinks 'fit,' and I say 'fiat.'          Here I stand for Fortune's butt,      As for Sunday swains to shy at          Stands the stoic coco-nut.      If you wish it put succinctly,          Gone are all our little games;      But I thought I 'd say distinctly          What I feel about it, James.