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