Thomas Bailey Aldrich + 

Dear Aldrich, now November’s mellow days + 

Have brought another Festa round to you, + 

You can’t refuse a loving-cup of praise + 

From friends the fleeting years have bound to you. + 

Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad Boy, + 

Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian, + 

And many more, to wish you birthday joy, + 

And sunny hours, and sky cerulean! + 

Your children all, they hurry to your den, + 

With wreaths of honour they have won for you, + 

To merry-make your threescore years and ten. + 

You, old? Why, life has just begun for you! + 

There’s many a reader whom your silver songs + 

And crystal stories cheer in loneliness. + 

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. + 

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! + 