Richard Henry Stoddard (1825–1903)

On His Fortieth Birthday

“WHOM the gods love die young,” we have been told,

And wise of some the saying seems to be;

Of others foolish; as it is of thee,

Who proven hast, “Whom the gods love live old.”

For have not forty seasons o’er thee rolled,

The worst propitious,—setting like the sea

Towards the haven of prosperity,

Now full in sight, so fair the wind doth hold?

Hast thou not fame, the poet’s chief desire;

A wife, whom thou dost love, who loves thee well;

A child, in whom your differing natures blend;

And friends, troops of them, who respect,—admire?

(How deeply one, it suits not now to tell;)

Such lives are long, and have a perfect end.