Dear first of March, my natal morn,
Fairest of days, when I was born,
Such gifts as I from maidens take.
This censer and this birthday-cake
I, fifty-seven now, do bring
To your high shrine as offering.
If it be well that I should live
Twice nine years more may heaven give;
And then I will not ask for more,
But go still hale to Pluto's shore,
Rejoicing that three parts I'd run
Of life, before my days were done.