Bayard Taylor (1825–1878)

THE YEARS go by, old friend! Each, as it fleets,

Moves to a farther, fairer realm the time

When first we twain the pleasant land of rhyme

Discovered, choosing side by side our seats

Below our separate gods: in midnight streets

And haunted attics flattered by the chime

Of silver words, and fed by faith sublime,

I Shelley’s mantle wore, you that of Keats,—

Dear dreams, that marked the Muse’s childhood then,

Nor now to be disowned! The years go by:

The clear-eyed goddess flatters us no more,

And yet, I think, in soberer aims of men

And servitude of Song, that you and I

Are nearer, dearer, faithfuller than before.