To John Kenyon

So, Kenyon, thou lover of frolic and laughter,
We meet in a place where we never were sad.
But who knows what destiny waits us hereafter,
How little or much of the pleasures we had!
The leaves of perhaps our last autumn are falling;
Half-spent is the lire that may soon cease to burn;
How many are absent who heed not our calling.
Alas, and how many who can not return!
Now, ere you are one of them, puff from before you
The sighs and entreaties that sadden Torquay:
A score may cling round you, and one may adore you;
If so, the more reason to hurry away.