Rod Quinn

  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.