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271

DEDICATIO POSTICA.

TO .A.C.S. .D.G.R. & .W.M.
Now many years ago in life's midday,
I laid the pen aside and rested still,
Like one barefooted on a shingly hill:
Three poets then came past, each young as May,
Year after year, upon their upward way,
And each one reached his hand out as he passed,
And over me his friendship's mantle cast,
And went on singing, everyone his lay.
Which was the earliest? methinks 'twas he
Who from the Southern laurels fresh leaves brought,
Then he who from the North learned Scaldic power,
And last the youngest, with the rainbow wrought
About his head; a symbol and a dower.—
But I can't choose between these brethren three.