Swags Up!

Rod Quinn

J. Le Gay Brereton

HOW many years, how many years have fled,
    Since in the cool dim parlour sat the three—
    Lawson and I and, lounging easily,
The beaming indolent poet! Then instead
Of labouring weary at the mill, we led
    The careless life of wanderers, frank and free,
    And had the wealth of a new-found world in fee:
How pitiless time gropes on with tireless tread!

A glass was raised, and golden liquor glowed
    When a ray from summer streets came piercing in;
        He drank the sunlight in the gloomy place!
And now I know the magic drink bestowed
    A vital golden splendour on Roderic Quinn,
        Which fumbling fingers of Time will scarce efface.

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