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.