Classic Poem

TO A CLASSMATE, AFTER FIFTEEN YEARS .

What! fifteen years? No, not that long!
The record, David, must be wrong.
Dear Mother Yale, correct your sight,
It's only 'sixty-seven to-night.

There's some mistake — no jesting here —
We're hardly out of senior year.
Dear mother, look again, I pray!
Last June was our Commencement-day.

The elms on old New Haven green
Have scarcely lost their russet sheen;
It only seems an evening since
We sat upon the college fence.

But tell me, now, whose bairns are these —
Bright boys and girls, about your knees?
Somehow they seem to look like you.
Old Yale is right — 'tis 'eighty-two.

Ay, facts are chiels which winna ding,
And bairns are facts the decades bring.
Come home with me, I'll introduce
Another flock that looks like Bruce.

I think we'll have another pair
To take our seats in college there —
Ah, David, how old Yale will shine
When she receives your boys and mine!

They'll never sleep in Chapel! — no! —
Like bricks tipped sideways in a row;
They'll never help each other through
Old Euclid, like some lads we knew.

It's our good-luck and dearest joy
To find more gold in each alloy;
For in each bright and childish face
We both can read their mother's grace.

Let others boast their gear and wealth,
These are our treasures, rich with health;
The living gold that's coined above,
Fresh from the mint, and stamped with love.

Upon this truth we take our stand,
Two brothers of a scattered band.
Give us your hand, for words are lame,
I find you, David, just the same;

With cheery voice, with generous heart,
With will to do the manly part;
A noble leader now as then —
'Twas then of boys, but now of men.