The songs I made from joy of earth <br /> In wanton wandering, <br />Are rapturous with Maytime mirth <br /> And ectasy of Spring. <br />But all the songs I sing today <br /> Take tediously the ear: <br />Novemberishly dark are they <br /> With mortuary fear. <br /> <br />For half a century has gone <br /> Since first I rang a rhyme; <br />And that is long to linger on <br /> The tolerance of Time. <br />This blue-veined hand with which I write <br /> Yet answers to my will; <br />Though four-score years I count to-night <br /> I am unsilent still. <br /> <br />"Senile old fool!" I hear you say; <br /> "Beside the dying fire <br />You huddle and stiff-fingered play <br /> Your tired and tinny lyre." <br />Well, though your patience I may try, <br /> Bear with me yet awhile, <br />And though you scorn my singing I <br /> Will thank you with a smile. <br /> <br />For I such soul-delighting joy <br /> Have found in simple rhyme, <br />Since first a happy-hearted boy <br /> I coaxed a word to chime, <br />That ere I tryst with Mother Earth <br /> Let from my heart arise <br />A song of youth and starry mirth . . . <br /> Then close my eyes.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/belated-bard/
