It is your thin, ungracious wine that runs
Within a year of bottling, to your tongue,
The noblest wine is somewhat harsh when young;
Lay it aside for many moons and suns,
Send it, if so you will, its "wander-year,"
A-battling with the ocean's storm and strife,
Then open it, when ripe are wine and life,
And see what mellow sunshine you have there.
Here is another year to crown that head
So full of years and honour, dear old friend,
Whose wisdom makes a constant, quiet balm
For tricks and trials of life, whose age doth blend
Young-heartedness with philosophic calm,
And sunshine on this generation shed.