To My Aging Friends

It is no winter night comes down             Upon our hearts, dear friends of old;         But a May evening, softly brown,             Whose wind is rather cold.         We are not, like yon sad-eyed West,             Phantoms that brood o'er Time's dust-hoard,         We are like yon Moon--in mourning drest,             But gazing on her lord.         Come nearer to the hearth, sweet friends,             Draw nigher, closer, hand and chair;         Ours is a love that never ends,             For God is dearest there!         We will not talk about the past,             We will not ponder ancient pain;         Those are but deep foundations cast             For peaks of soaring gain!         We, waiting Dead, will warm our bones             At our poor smouldering earthly fire;         And talk of wide-eyed living ones             Who have what we desire.         O Living, ye know what is death--             We, by and by, shall know it too!         Humble, with bated, hoping breath,             We are coming fast to you!