What though the newer writers come in throngs?
You're sure to keep your charm of only-ness.
You do your work with careful, loving touch,--
An artist to the very core of you,--
You know the magic spell of "not-too-much":
We read,--and wish that there was more of you.
And more there is: for while we love your books
Because their subtle skill is part of you;
We love _you_ better, for our friendship looks
Behind them to the human heart of you.
II
MEMORIAL SONNET, 1908
This is the house where little Aldrich read
The early pages of Life's wonder-book
With boyish pleasure: in this ingle-nook
He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy shed
Bright colour on the pictures blue and red:
Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took
His happy way, with searching, dreamful look
Among the deeper things more simply said.
Then, came his turn to write: and still the flame
Of Fancy played through all the tales he told,
And still he won the laurelled poet's fame
With simple words wrought into rhymes of gold.
Look, here's the face to which this house is frame,--
A man too wise to let his heart grow old!
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
(Read at His Funeral, January 21, 1908)
Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch
Of beauty or of truth,
Rich in the thoughtfulness of age,
The hopefulness of youth,
The courage of the gentle heart,
The wisdom of the pure,
The strength of finely tempered souls
To labour and endure!
The blue of springtime in your eyes
Was never quenched by pain;
And winter brought your head the crown
Of snow without a stain.
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