(After Martial)To-day, my friend is seventy-five; He tells his tale with no regret; His brave old eyes are steadfast yet,
His heart the .lightest heart alive.
He sees behind him green and wide The pathway of his pilgrim years; He sees the shore, and dreadless
The whisper of the creeping tide.
For out of all his days, not one Has passed and left its unlaid ghost To seek a light for ever lost,
Or wail a deed for ever done.
So for reward of life-long truth He lives again, as good men can, Redoubling his allotted
With memories of a stainless youth.
