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 caerulean!
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.
November 24,1906.