In days to come—whatever ache
Of age shall rack our bones, or quake
Our slackened thews—whatever grip
Rheumatic catch us i' the hip,—
We, each one, for the other's sake,
Will of our very wailings make
Such quips of song as well may shake
The spasm'd corners from the lip—
In days to come.
Ho! ho! how our old hearts shall rake
The past up!—how our dry eyes slake
Their sight upon the dewy drip
Of juicy-ripe companionship,
And blink stars from the blind opaque—
In days to come.