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Henry Van Dyke - Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Work rating: Low

I 

BIRTHDAY VERSES 

Dear Aldrich, now November`s mellow days
     Have brought another Festa round to you,
You can`t refuse a loving-cup of praise
     From friends the fleeting years have bound to you. 

Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad Boy,
     Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian,
And many more, to wish you birthday joy,
     And sunny hours, and sky caerulean! 

Your children all, they hurry to your den,
     With wreaths of honour they have won for you,
To merry-make your threescore years and ten.
     You, old? Why, life has just begun for you! 

There`s many a reader whom your silver songs
     And crystal stories cheer in loneliness.
What though the newer writers come in throngs?
     You`re sure to keep your charm of only-ness. 

You do your work with careful, loving touch, —
     An artist to the very core of you, —
You know the magic spell of "not-too-much ":
     We read, — and wish that there was more of you. 

And more there is: for while we love your books
      Because their subtle skill is part of you;
We love you better, for our friendship looks
      Behind them to the human heart of you. 

                                              November 24, 1906. 


II 

MEMORIAL SONNET 

THIS is the house where little Aldrich read 
     The early pages of Life`s wonder-book: 
With boyish pleasure, in this ingle-nook 
     He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy spread 
Bright colours on the pictures, blue and red:
     Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took
His happy way, with searching, dreamful look 
     Among the deeper things more simply said. 

Then, came his turn to write: and still the flame
     Of Fancy played through all the tales he told, 
And still he won the laurelled poet`s fame
     With simple words wrought into rhymes of gold.
Look, here`s the face to which this house is frame, —
     A man too wise to let his heart grow old!
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