The dancers sway like wind-swept fields of grain, And midst the storm, to maddening fury stirred, The thunder of the old bass horn is heard. Beside the glowing fire, with smiles serene, An aged couple sit and view the scene. Grandfather's ears the reveille have caught, And thronging memories fill the camps of thought. His heels strike on the floor, with measured beat, As if to ease a tickling in his feet. Year after year, for love of kith and kin. Grandmother's hands have had to toil and spin; But since the palsy all their cunning stole Her mind is spinning raiment for the soul, Of spotless white and beauty fit to wear, When comes the Bridegroom and the end of care. So goes the dance until the night is gone And chanticleer proclaims the breaking dawn. The waning stars show pale to wearied eyes And seem to dance cotillions in the skies; As if, forsooth, upon the journey home Terpsichore's music filled the starry dome. Blest be the dance! with noisy pleasure rife Enough to temper all the woe in life; What magic power its capering measures hold To keep the hearts of men from growing old! Stem Father Time, rejoicing in the scene, Forbears to reap while yet the fields are green. TO A DEAD CLASSMATE He started on the left road and I went on the right, We were young and strong and the way was long and we travelled day an' night; And O the haste and O the waste! and the rush of the busy throng! The worried eye, and the quick good-bye, and the need to hurry along! Odd times we met on the main highway and told our hopes and fears, And after every parting came a wider flood of years. I love to tell of the last farewell, and this is the way it ran: "I don't know when I'll see you again--take care of yourself, ol' man." Put the Beta pin upon his breast, with rosemary and rue, The cap and gown, the scarlet and brown and the symbol of '82, And lay him low with a simple word as the loving eye grows dim: "He took care of more than his share--O Christ! take care of him." The snow is falling on the head and aye the heart grows cold; The new friend comes to claim a share of that we gave the old, And men forget while the eye is wet and bend to the lug of the load, And whether or when they will meet you again is ever a chance of the road. The babes are boys, the boys are men, and slowly, year by year, New faces throng the storied halls and old ones disappear. As the hair is grayed and the red lips fade let friend be friend, for aye We come and go and ere we know have spoken a long good-bye. TO MY FRIEND A. B. The veil of care is lifted from his face!