Classic Poem

Take this from one who, though his worth
Be spent on gloomier verse and prose
Knows well from what deep bed upgrows
The noble mystery of mirth:

Who gives this mark of love to thee
Scarce more for all thy graver phase
The deeper love, the keener gaze
Than none have ever known but he.

Scarce more for all the weightier lore
Than for that ever-generous cheer,
That gives to Fordham's jest a peer
And meets the shriek of d'Avigdor.

Revered, beloved, O you that hold
A nobler office in the club,
Than votes and titles and hubbub,
Gave Lucian or myself of old.

Too deep to show the inner scenes,
Like those whose thinking is their curse,
Exploit your mortal faith in verse,
And print your doubts in magazines.

Content to give the fancies vent,
And to our pleasure give your power,
And sway through many an honest hour,
The notes of laughter and content.

The words of feeling scarce are free
But some a feeling can recall
Turned from some constitutional brawl,
To brighten at a word from thee.