OLD FRIENDS, OLD BOOKS, OLD WINES

IN the Halls of Silence Faintly falls the tread Of the ghostly footsteps Of the dear remembered dead, Comrades of a golden prime, Years and years ago, Friends, of Yule and summer-time Ere the world swung slow, And ever in my ear A dying voice repines For the broken trinity, Old friends, old books, old wines. There were aye romances In the Kingdom of the Dead, Knights who rode from out the sunset, Lance in hand and helm on head, Dames as beauteous as the morn-stars, To the world they gazed upon Scattering night’s silvern lilies, Flaming roses of the dawn.— Scott and Stevenson and Dumas Filled the world with livelier spooks, In the brave days, the gay days, Old friends, old wines, old books. When did e’er Hellenic nectar Such Olympian thirst assuage As the draughts in which our Helens Of a modern Pagan age Toasted we both late and early, Beauties exquisite and rare, Was it bubbling Hock or Hiedsieck, Or discreet vin ordinaire? Ah, I know not, and I care not For one sadly drinks and dines, Musing on the vanished memories, Old friends, old books, old wines.