Classic Poem

AN IMAGINARY CONVERSATION

INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

Four lines of Landor are enough
To show that stout heart's human stuff.

When Age and Landor met at 80
It was as friends, all tête-a-tête-y.
The Poet said — " I'm more alive
Than when I sang at 75
That I was ready to depart
The moment Death should string his dart.
Yet here I linger, as though he
Had lost the art of archery. "

" Nay, nay, " said Age, " he is my friend
And loves your gentle repetend
Of welcome to me, and would fain
Give you excuse to write again.
Indite today one greeting more,
I'll intercede for half a score
Of youthful years in which to add
Your wit, serene but never sad. "

The Poet wrote a verse of four
And until 90 Death forbore.

I too have praised the joys of Age:
(Need I cite such and such a page?)
Though none — as all confess in candor —
Can imitate the wit of Landor,
Yet I, like him, will show no fear
And welcome Age each grayer year
That he may intercede for me —
Dear comrade of the years to be!