An Impromptu

Not premeditated 1853     The clock has struck noon; ere it thrice tell the hours     We shall meet round the table that blushes with flowers,     And I shall blush deeper with shame-driven blood     That I came to the banquet and brought not a bud.     Who cares that his verse is a beggar in art     If you see through its rags the full throb of his heart?     Who asks if his comrade is battered and tanned     When he feels his warm soul in the clasp of his hand?     No! be it an epic, or be it a line,     The Boys will all love it because it is mine;     I sung their last song on the morn of the day     That tore from their lives the last blossom of May.     It is not the sunset that glows in the wine,     But the smile that beams over it, makes it divine;     I scatter these drops, and behold, as they fall,     The day-star of memory shines through them all!     And these are the last; they are drops that I stole     From a wine-press that crushes the life from the soul,     But they ran through my heart and they sprang to my brain     Till our twentieth sweet summer was smiling again!