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James Whitcomb Riley - A Letter To A Friend
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The past is like a story
    I have listened to in dreams
That vanished in the glory
    Of the Morning`s early gleams;
And--at my shadow glancing--
    I feel a loss of strength,
As the Day of Life advancing
    Leaves it shorn of half its length.

But it`s all in vain to worry
    At the rapid race of Time--
And he flies in such a flurry
    When I trip him with a rhyme,
I`ll bother him no longer
    Than to thank you for the thought
That "my fame is growing stronger
    As you really think it ought."

And though I fall below it,
    I might know as much of mirth
To live and die a poet
    Of unacknowledged worth;
For Fame is but a vagrant--
    Though a loyal one and brave,
And his laurels ne`er so fragrant
    As when scattered o`er the grave.
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