Rod Quinn

How many years, how many years have fled, Since in the cool dim parlour sat the three Lawson and I and, lounging easily, The beaming indolent poet! Then instead Of labouring weary at the mill, we led The careless life of wanderers, frank and free, And had the wealth of a new-found world in fee: How pitiless time gropes on with tireless tread! A glass was raised, and golden liquor glowed When a ray from summer streets came piercing in; He drank the sunlight in the gloomy place! And now I know the magic drink bestowed A vital golden splendour on Roderic Quinn, Which fumbling fingers of Time will scarce efface