Which so often has lent the mild flashes of mirth

     To illumine the depths of the Bowl.

     vWith a world full of beauty and fun for a theme,

     And a glass of good wine to inspire,

     E'en without thee we sometimes are bless'd with a gleam

     That resembles thy spirit's own fire.

     Yet still, in our gayest and merriest mood,

     Our pleasures are tasteless and dim,

     For the thoughts of the past and of Tom that intrude

     Make us feel we're but happy with him.

     Like the Triumph of old where the

      absent one

     threw

     A cloud o'er the glorious scene,

     Are our feasts, my dear Tom, when we meet without you,

     And think of the nights that have been.

     When thy genius, assuming all hues of delight

     Fled away with the rapturous hours,

     And when wisdom and wit, to enliven the night,

     Scattered freely their fruits and their flowers.

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