me burned;
I'd sing, as one whose heart must break,
Lay upon lay--I nearly learned
To shake.

All day I sang; of love and fame,
Of fights our fathers fought of yore,
Until the thing almost became
A bore.

I cannot sing the old songs now!
It is not that I deem them low;
'Tis that I can't remember how
They go.

I could not range the hills till high
Above me stood the summer moon:
And as to dancing, I could fly
As soon.

The sports, to which with boyish glee
I sprang erewhile, attract no more:
Although I am but sixty-three
Or four.

Nay, worse than that, I've seemed of late
To shrink from happy boyhood--boys
Have grown so noisy, and I hate
A noise.

They fright me when the beech is green,
By swarming up its stem for eggs;
They drive their horrid hoops between
My legs.

It's idle to repine, I know;
I'll tell you what I'll do instead:
I'll drink my arrowroot, and go
To bed.

THOUGHTS AT A RAILWAY STATION

'Tis but a box, of modest deal;
Directed to no matter where:
Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal--
Yes, I am blubbering like a seal;
For on it is this mute appeal,
"_With care_."

I am a stern cold man, and range
Apart: but those vague words "_With care_"
Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange:
Drawn from my moral Moated Grange,
I feel I rather like the change
Of air.

Hast thou ne'er seen rough pointsmen spy
Some simple English phrase--"_With care_"
Or "_This side uppermost_"--and cry
Like children? No? No more have I.
Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry
A bear.

But ah! what treasure hides beneath
That lid so much the worse for wear?
A ring perhaps--a rosy wreath--
A photograph by Vernon Heath--
Some matron's temporary teeth
Or hair!

Perhaps some seaman, in Peru
Or Ind, hath stowed herein a rare
Cargo of birds'-eggs for his Sue;
With many a vow that he'll be true,
And many a hint that she is too--
Too fair.

Perhaps--but wherefore vainly pry
Into the page that's folded there?
I shall be better by-and-by:
The porters, as I sit and sigh,
Pass and repass--I wonder why
They sta