To My Brothers
Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creepLike whispers of the household gods that keepA gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.And while for rhymes I search around the poles,Your eyes are fixed, as in poetic sleep,Upon the lore so voluble and deep,That aye at fall of night our care condoles.This is your birthday, Tom, and I rejoiceThat thus it passes smoothly, quietly:Many such eves of gently whispering noiseMay we together pass, and calmly tryWhat are this world's true joys,—ere the great VoiceFrom its fair face shall bid our spirits fly.
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