SIXTY.
I asked him of his age: "Sixty," he said,
And looked up startled. On his furrowed brow
Were written many a tale of years long fled,
Whose memories he seemed to live in now.
And therefore did the present seem as nought
To his existence, or a troubled thought,
Scarce glancing on the surface of his mind,
To leave no trace, no memory behind.
And looked up startled. On his furrowed brow
Were written many a tale of years long fled,
Whose memories he seemed to live in now.
And therefore did the present seem as nought
To his existence, or a troubled thought,
Scarce glancing on the surface of his mind,
To leave no trace, no memory behind.
And yet to those who knew him best, he only
Seemed as a weed thrown on life's rapid stream;
Not pressed on by the crowd, nor yet too lonely,
But floating onward in a fitful dream,
Where all the better energies of life
Are worn and wasted in imagined strife,
Presenting, when the veil is torn away,
A blank that tells of nothing,—or decay.
Seemed as a weed thrown on life's rapid stream;
Not pressed on by the crowd, nor yet too lonely,
But floating onward in a fitful dream,
Where all the better energies of life
Are worn and wasted in imagined strife,
Presenting, when the veil is torn away,
A blank that tells of nothing,—or decay.
We live in the past alone, with its dead days,
And with God's gifts do nought. The past should be
Not for our feet a snare in life's new ways,
But guide and mentor in emergency.
And with God's gifts do nought. The past should be
Not for our feet a snare in life's new ways,
But guide and mentor in emergency.
