The backlog burning bright behind us,
I smile again, and sigh, perhaps,
To think how fifty years may find us.
You 'll call me formal "Mr." then,
Yourself be Mrs. That or T'other;
A heavy father, too, I'll be,
And you, perchance, a staid grandmother.
And twice or thrice a year, mayhap,
We 'll meet at dinner, rout, or party,
Smile blandly, say a word or two,
With greeting that's not over hearty.
But then let's hope we 'll drop our pride,
Our wall of stiffness lose its mortar,
Our hearts be touched by somewhat, - say,
My youngest flirting with your daughter.