To Henry Mills Alden

Our days by deeds are numbered,—and by dreams,If we dream well and nobly; for it seemsThat he who would respondBy deed to what is loveliest and best,Must, holding to the near and manifest,Find in the things beyond,Faith, ay, and courage, duty to fulfil,—Hearing the higher voices calling still.

Thy youth those voices heard on many a height,In the fresh dawn and the all-fragrant night,For thou wast mountain-born;And looking to the hills,—from boyhood-daysThy comrades,—learned the wonder in their ways,Reglorified each morn;Gaining, with deeper draughts of upland breath,Large images of Life and lordly Death.

And as a man but follows his lodestar,—For our ideals make us what we are,—Through self-effacing years,Thou, toiling where the burdened city moans,Hast lost no accent of the higher zones.Smiles, and the truth of tears,And memories, and melodies unsung,Have visited thy heart, and kept it young.

Thou hast had strength, where many failed, to gleanGood from a doubtful harvest; thou hast seenLight where the shade lay deep.The future with the present praise must blendTo crown thy triumphs worthily, dear friend;But we remembrance keepMore grateful, even, for thyself than them,And lay upon thy brow love's anadem.