To Sylvia
In two short weeks another year'll have rolled
Around for you; good gracious, then, how old
How very, very old you get to be.
Not long since, it seems, upon my knee
I used to dandle you and tell you how
The farmers go, with a hobbledegee-ee!
For such like sport you're far too heavy now,
Or else I'll have to get new knees more strong,
Of brass or steel, for mine won't stand that long.
Eleven! Bless my soul, perhaps you're glad
Of growing big, to have your way; begad!
And order folks around a little more,
And not be bossed, and have good times galore.
But I should like you always to be young—
And happy too; and always from your tongue
To hear you talk of horses, goats and things
Of out of doors; and jolly picnickings
With Elma and your friends. Quite soon will come
The times of dresses, parties, then the hum
Of busier doings,—p'raps a college hall
Where I'll lose sight of you for almost all.
Your brother you'll forsake for other boys,
And no more tell him of your hearty joys.
—But yet some fault is mine, 'tis very true,
In seeking Cambridge and deserting you!
But still, I know you can't help growing up,
No cat is always kitten, or dog a pup!
And since grow old you must, I only hope
You'll still feel young, and, like the Ivory soap,
(Which floats) you'll float upon the waves of youth,
Be merry, good, and always tell the truth.
And now the point! Lest you should soon forget
What I have said, I send a little set
Of photographs; one of some happy boys
Who dance and sing with most hilarious noise,
They're happy—I suppose because they're good.
And one is of a little minstrel chap
More thoughtful he, his lyre on his lap,
He too is singing and is always young—
Has been for twice two-hundred years, and sung
His happy life along—if sorrow's there
It's far away, the present all is fair.
The third is of an angel on a cloud.
A very charming angel 'tis avowed
By all who care for such—I hope you're one.—
She, too, will sing until the world is done.
Methinks for morals you're not much inclined,
But if you are, it isn't hard to find.
We have our tears, you know as well as I,
And when we find our doll is dust, we cry.
Defy tears when you can, and keep a song
Inside your little heart, and then you can't go wrong.
Around for you; good gracious, then, how old
How very, very old you get to be.
Not long since, it seems, upon my knee
I used to dandle you and tell you how
The farmers go, with a hobbledegee-ee!
For such like sport you're far too heavy now,
Or else I'll have to get new knees more strong,
Of brass or steel, for mine won't stand that long.
Eleven! Bless my soul, perhaps you're glad
Of growing big, to have your way; begad!
And order folks around a little more,
And not be bossed, and have good times galore.
But I should like you always to be young—
And happy too; and always from your tongue
To hear you talk of horses, goats and things
Of out of doors; and jolly picnickings
With Elma and your friends. Quite soon will come
The times of dresses, parties, then the hum
Of busier doings,—p'raps a college hall
Where I'll lose sight of you for almost all.
Your brother you'll forsake for other boys,
And no more tell him of your hearty joys.
—But yet some fault is mine, 'tis very true,
In seeking Cambridge and deserting you!
But still, I know you can't help growing up,
No cat is always kitten, or dog a pup!
And since grow old you must, I only hope
You'll still feel young, and, like the Ivory soap,
(Which floats) you'll float upon the waves of youth,
Be merry, good, and always tell the truth.
And now the point! Lest you should soon forget
What I have said, I send a little set
Of photographs; one of some happy boys
Who dance and sing with most hilarious noise,
They're happy—I suppose because they're good.
And one is of a little minstrel chap
More thoughtful he, his lyre on his lap,
He too is singing and is always young—
Has been for twice two-hundred years, and sung
His happy life along—if sorrow's there
It's far away, the present all is fair.
The third is of an angel on a cloud.
A very charming angel 'tis avowed
By all who care for such—I hope you're one.—
She, too, will sing until the world is done.
Methinks for morals you're not much inclined,
But if you are, it isn't hard to find.
We have our tears, you know as well as I,
And when we find our doll is dust, we cry.
Defy tears when you can, and keep a song
Inside your little heart, and then you can't go wrong.
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