Acrostically yours, Doc. Happy Birthday!
Love,
Carl Smith
'70, and I forget the other years - but I still remember my Oberon and Shylock
speeches!
An Anciano woke, as from a dream
His spittle dry, an emblem of his age.
Am I the Oberon that I once seemed?
Perhaps my fairy voice can still be rais’d.
Presuming I remember where to start,
Yellow gold may yet run in these salt streams.
But notwithstanding, haste, pierced through the heart
I thirst for gracious, golden, glittering gleams.
Recalling voices of Windedales long past
The shade of oaks, the heat, the barn, the stars,
He recognized their meaning, and he gasped,
Doc’s birthday’s coming, I forgot a card!
Although the Bard of Avon’s mouth has closed,
Your birthday song is singing from his prose.