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244

VI.
TO P. B. M.

IN MID-STREAM

Not to the placid heights of middle age
Let you and me with loitering steps ascend.
Nay, let us perish in the strife, O friend,
Where round the standard most the war-waves rage
If this be life—to move from stage to stage
And watch life's passion dwindle till the end
And slowly all our power of love expend,
Life then is poorer for each added page.
Nay! If our love and passion may not grow
And all the fire within our spirits gleam
With steadier, stronger, and diviner glow
Daily, mere living is a soulless dream.—
Love ever. Perish, if it must be so.
But perish buffeting the sweet mid-stream.