A Birthday Gift

by Robert Fuller Murray

A Birthday Gift 

No gift I bring but worship, and the love

Which all must bear to lovely souls and pure,

Those lights, that, when all else is dark, endure;

Stars in the night, to lift our eyes above;

To lift our eyes and hearts, and make us move

Less doubtful, though our journey be obscure,

Less fearful of its ending, being sure

That they watch over us, where'er we rove.

And though my gift itself have little worth,

Yet worth it gains from her to whom `tis given,

As a weak flower gets colour from the sun.

Or rather, as when angels walk the earth,

All things they look on take the look of heaven -

For of those blessed angels thou art one. 

Ninetieth Birthday

by Ronald Stuart Thomas

You go up the long track

That will take a car, but is best walked

On slow foot, noting the lichen

That writes history on the page

Of the grey rock. Trees are about you

At first, but yield to the green bracken,

The nightjars house: you can hear it spin

On warm evenings; it is still now

In the noonday heat, only the lesser

Voices sound, blue-fly and gnat

And the stream's whisper. As the road climbs,

You will pause for breath and the far sea's

Signal will flash, till you turn again

To the steep track, buttressed with cloud.

And there at the top that old woman,

Born almost a century back

In that stone farm, awaits your coming;

Waits for the news of the lost village

She thinks she knows, a place that exists

In her memory only.

You bring her greeting

And praise for having lasted so long

With time's knife shaving the bone.

Yet no bridge joins her own

World with yours, all you can do

Is lean kindly across the abyss

To hear words that were once wise.

Birthday

by Robert William Service

I thank whatever gods may be

For all the happiness that's mine;

That I am festive, fit and free

To savour women, wit and wine;

That I may game of golf enjoy,

And have a formidable drive:

In short, that I'm a gay old boy

Though I be

Seventy-and-five.

My daughter thinks. because I'm old

(I'm not a crock, when all is said),

I mustn't let my feet get cold,

And should wear woollen socks in bed;

A worsted night-cap too, forsooth!

To humour her I won't contrive:

A man is in his second youth

When he is

Seventy-and-five.

At four-score years old age begins,

And not till then, I warn my wife;

At eighty I'll recant my sins,

And live a staid and sober life.

But meantime let me whoop it up,

And tell the world that I'm alive:

Fill to the brim the bubbly cup -

Here's health to

Seventy-and-five!