Coming of Age
by Edward James Mortimer Collins
The poet may tread earth sadly,
Yet is he Dreamland's king,
And the fays at his bidding gladly
Visions of beauty bring;
But his joys will be rarer, finer,
Away from this earthly stage,
When he, who is now a minor,
Comes of age.
For him soft leaflets cluster
Of violet, ivy, and vine;
For him leaps livelier lustre
From purple depth of wine:
Pauses the song of the Sirens,
Closes the Sybil's page,
Till he, whom earth environs,
Comes of age.
He seems to the moiling million
A very pestilent knave;
Yet the sky is his pavilion,
And the maiden moon his slave;
And the sea, with its myriad laughter,
And maddening freaks of rage,
Owns him who, a king hereafter,
Comes of age.
The wailing winds and the thunder,
And the roar of a war that whirls,
Breaking great realms asunder,
And the merry songs of girls,
All in one music mingle,
All the great joys presage,
Of the poet who, royal and single,
Comes of age.
Roll on, O tardy cycle,
Whose death is the poet's birth!
Blow soon, great trump of Michael,
Shatter the crust of earth!
Let the slow spheres turn faster;
Hasten the heritage
Of him who, as life's true master,
Comes of age!