TO CHARLES E. PUTNEY

Still, still a summer day comes to my call,— A room wide-windowed, bright with girls and boys, A wrinkled Homer craning from the wall, A bee-like murmuring of ai's and oi's; And you, a king, dark-bearded, on your throne,— A king of gentle bearing and soft speech, No scepter ringing and no trumpet blown, But nature's own authority to teach. A stranger-lad I steal into my place And five and thirty years are quickly gone. The same sweet balsam breathes upon my face, The old Hellenic brook is purling on. See with how bright a chain you hold us true: We that would think of youth must think of you. Wendell Phillips Stafford.