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 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.
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. Yet as we stumble on, we seem to think The cup of happiness from which Ave drink Was emptied yesterday, and never more To be refilled on life's receding shore.
Or else, unto the fountain-head we turn, Where first that cup was filled, thinking that then 'Twill be replenished, as we vainly yearn To taste of those sweet waters once again, Which, leaping upward with a joyful sound, Utter their broken murmurs all around, Like echoes, which, wandering from some far shore, Linger a moment, to be heard no more.
Was that old man listening to hear the sound From childhood's haunted shore, while years went by, With heavy tread, whispering the tale around Of all that died, and all that were to die? Heard he mysterious music from afar, Some melody dropped from a fallen star, That thus his senses, by its siren song, Should in forgetfulness be steeped so long?
Man calls aloud, and echo answers him From distant cliff's, while the surrounding air Is voiceless and untroubled; yet the hymn Those far hills chant to God, re-echoes there. So with the heart: call, and from out the deep They come, those joyous memories, with a leap, Telling of years whose gladness lends a gleam Of sunshine even to age's sluggish stream.
And therefore do we love them, and the shore Whence first we set forth on our pilgrimage, When we were hopeful, hoping evermore That each succeeding was the promised stage Which young ambition longed for; when as yet Little we had to grieve for or regret; Ere hope died in us, and that happy shore Faded, and we its fragrance breathed no more.
"Sixty," again the old man softly said, With faltering voice, as if that little word Contained somewhat to mourn for and to dread,— Something that from its aimless slumbers stirred His spirit into wakefulness: a light Seemed to break on him through a world of night, Yet brought no comfort to his troubled mind; The moments lost how could he hope to find?
For he had let them pass unheeded by, As if unworthy of a better fate; And close upon their steps, reluctantly, Age plodded after, sere and desolate. Now all his thoughts unto the past he gave, While at his feet yawned the remorseless grave; And, at the last, he felt, with bitter pain, That, at three score and ten, he had lived in vain.
