Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals, <br />And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep <br />Like whispers of the household gods that keep <br />A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. <br />And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, <br />Your eyes are fix d, as in poetic sleep, <br />Upon the lore so voluble and deep, <br />That aye at fall of night our care condoles. <br />This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice <br />That thus it passes smoothly, quietly. <br />Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise <br />May we together pass, and calmly try <br />What are this world s true joys, ere the great voice, <br />From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.<br /><br />John Keats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-viii-to-my-brothers/
