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At sundown To E. C. S. Poet and friend of poets, if thy glass Detects no flower in winter's tuft of grass, Let this slight token of the debt I owe Outlive for thee December's frozen day, And, like the arbutus budding under snow, Take bloom and fragrance from some morn of May When he who gives it shall have gone the way Where faith shall see and reverent trust shall know. The Christmas of 1888. Low in the east, against a white, cold dawn, The black-lined silhouette of the woods was
. In such an atmosphere of youth I half forget my age's truth; The shadow of my life's long date Runs backward on the dial-plate, Until it seems a step might span The gulf between the boy and man. My young friends smile, as if some jay On bleak December's leafless spray Essayed to sing the songs of May. Well, let them smile, and live to know, When their brown locks are flecked with snow, Tis tedious to be always sage And pose the dignity of age, While so much of our early lives On memory's pla