The Old Tune

THIRTY-SIXTH VARIATION THIS shred of song you bid me bring Is snatched from fancy's embers; Ah, when the lips forget to sing, The faithful heart remembers! Too swift the wings of envious Time To wait for dallying phrases, Or woven strands of labored rhyme To thread their cunning mazes. A word, a sigh, and lo, how plain Its magic breath discloses Our life's long vista through a lane Of threescore summers' roses! One language years alone can teach Its roots are young affections That feel their way to simplest speech Through silent recollections. That tongue is ours. How few the words We need to know a brother! As simple are the notes of birds, Yet well they know each other. This freezing month of ice and snow That brings our lives together Lends to our year a living glow That warms its wintry weather. So let us meet as eve draws nigh, And life matures and mellows, Till Nature whispers with a sigh, 'Good-night, my dear old fellows!'