VIII. To my Brothers: VIII. 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�er fraternal souls.
And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,
Your eyes are fix�d, as in poetic sleep,
Upon the lore so voluble and deep,
That aye 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 whisp�ring 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.