How many years, how many years have fled,
Since in the cool dim parlour sat the three
Lawson and I and, lounging easily,
The beaming indolent poet! Then instead
Of labouring weary at the mill, we led
The careless life of wanderers, frank and free,
And had the wealth of a new-found world in fee:
How pitiless time gropes on with tireless tread!
A glass was raised, and golden liquor glowed
When a ray from summer streets came piercing in;
He drank the sunlight in the gloomy place!
And now I know the magic drink bestowed
A vital golden splendour on Roderic Quinn,
Which fumbling fingers of Time will scarce efface