Classic Poem

To W. G. C. , with a Book of Plays

Sir , you have known great men, and your own mind
Has the authentic quality and aspect
Of such a mind as theirs; and you have served
Their vision as an equal sometimes serves
His purposes wherever they are found.
Yet now, ere you are old, that marvellous life
Has vanished, and the enriched world has cared
To lose those riches for the sake of change;
And only you and one or two can tell
How that lost treasure still might come to be.

It may be I am fortunate to live
In a condition little touched by change,
And maimed in all that most becomes a man;
For only a wrecked world is past my reach,
And dreadful transformations edify
Baseness and mean delight to be man's pride.
Yet I am often home-sick for my youth,
And that lost magic, and those far-off men
Who could enlarge my life when they took thought;
And when I think of them I think of you
Who in this lonely North have stood to me
For all that you have known and have partaken.

A dateless happiness is in such remembrance,
And, as I offer you this book of dreams
Of life when life was natural and keen,
I stand in the dead years among real things;
Yet in the same kind instant is assurance
That the great tide of change has not changed you,
And I may know you will receive my book
And my regard for what you were and are.