High summer’s tyranny has loosed its hold;

From their hot zenith my desires descend

To genial afternoon. Though I grow old,

Autumnal ripeness comes before the cold.

The hostile sun, with whom I would contend,

Tempers his lustful fire, and as a friend

Inaugurates my evening years of gold.

I, who could not give up the world, go free:

This irreligious world renounces me.

Ignored in peace and decently neglected

Till I am safely dead, I lay no claim

To riches, privilege, prestige, degree,

Nor crave the flaring fraudulence of fame,

But work unknown, my only wealth the Name.
Harold Stewart


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