Post Prandial
John Taylor Johnston: dear jo John,
I'm glad you brought our class together—
The Class of '39—last night
To dine with you, a jovial crew,
At number eight, Fifth Avenue.
Such days should all be marked with white.
The evening was as fair and bright
As if you 'd ordered up the weather,
As well as all that luscious fodder,—
The surest sort of friendship's soder,—
Which we good fellows fed upon.
Five years had gone since last we met,
And millions must have joined that class
Who 've solved the mystery of death,—
On Styx's bank, in Hades dank,—
Since we last laughed, and ate, and drank
At your good board. And War's fierce breath
Has dimmed our skies with flaming wrath,
And burned our Land as fire burns grass;
Yet all the Class you fed so well,
And heard their “private history” tell
Five years ago, are living yet.
It must be in the fodder, John;
It must be in the kindly heart;
It must be in the pleasing hope
Of welcome greet, and memory sweet,
Of such good times when fellows meet,
That turns “Life's feeble string” to rope,
And gives it strength and ample scope,
Which, like true love, is hard to part.
The feast which feeds mind, heart, and body,
And cheers, but not inflames like toddy,
Is good to lengthen life, dear John.
'T was fun to see the fellows' pates,
Like ivory balls in wreaths of hair,
And hear the graybeards talk and laugh,
And act like boys, with all their noise,
And all their hopes, and jokes, and joys!
The gods such nectar could not quaff
As sweet as ours, last night, by half,
Which Alma Mater, always fair,
Poured out in Memory's cup of gold
To make us young, however old,—
To make us young in spite of fates.
We may not live five years to come,
To meet again around your board,
With grayer beard and shinier head,
And wiser tongue, or feebler lung,
To quaff the joys that make us young:
Not all. Of some it may be said,
This one, and that, are with the dead.
For such, I pray that Christ the Lord,
Whose House is open for us all,
May give them grace to heed His call
To come and feast with Him at Home!
I'm glad you brought our class together—
The Class of '39—last night
To dine with you, a jovial crew,
At number eight, Fifth Avenue.
Such days should all be marked with white.
The evening was as fair and bright
As if you 'd ordered up the weather,
As well as all that luscious fodder,—
The surest sort of friendship's soder,—
Which we good fellows fed upon.
Five years had gone since last we met,
And millions must have joined that class
Who 've solved the mystery of death,—
On Styx's bank, in Hades dank,—
Since we last laughed, and ate, and drank
At your good board. And War's fierce breath
Has dimmed our skies with flaming wrath,
And burned our Land as fire burns grass;
Yet all the Class you fed so well,
And heard their “private history” tell
Five years ago, are living yet.
It must be in the fodder, John;
It must be in the kindly heart;
It must be in the pleasing hope
Of welcome greet, and memory sweet,
Of such good times when fellows meet,
That turns “Life's feeble string” to rope,
And gives it strength and ample scope,
Which, like true love, is hard to part.
The feast which feeds mind, heart, and body,
And cheers, but not inflames like toddy,
Is good to lengthen life, dear John.
'T was fun to see the fellows' pates,
Like ivory balls in wreaths of hair,
And hear the graybeards talk and laugh,
And act like boys, with all their noise,
And all their hopes, and jokes, and joys!
The gods such nectar could not quaff
As sweet as ours, last night, by half,
Which Alma Mater, always fair,
Poured out in Memory's cup of gold
To make us young, however old,—
To make us young in spite of fates.
We may not live five years to come,
To meet again around your board,
With grayer beard and shinier head,
And wiser tongue, or feebler lung,
To quaff the joys that make us young:
Not all. Of some it may be said,
This one, and that, are with the dead.
For such, I pray that Christ the Lord,
Whose House is open for us all,
May give them grace to heed His call
To come and feast with Him at Home!
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