To my Brothers

Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,

   And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep

   Like whispers of the household gods that keep

A gentle empire o'e fraternal souls.

And while for rhymes I search around the poles,

   Your eyes are fixed, as in poetic sleep,

   Upon the lore so voluble and deep

That ay at fall of night our care condoles.

This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoice

   That thus it passes smoothly, quietly.

Many such eves of gently whispering noise

   May we together pass, and calmly try

What are this world's true joys, ere the great voice

   From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly.