There are certain old men,
Who, when half-pressed lingers their day,
Do in winter bloom, all grizzled and gray.
And such wraiths they are! In the last years,
There's attained the bounties of sombrer age,
And the youthful vigour, diadem of king and sage,
There's gained anew, like from embers a fitful fire,
Or from chaste life, that in pleasure excess,
And having none to lose, the heavens glee and bless.
While many a youth I've seen in frenzied pace,
Dream-drunk their ambition's circuit a-race,
Few did possess a strength so haunting,
Than those few who with dissatisfied stance
Banish the wrinkled brow with austere countenance,
And who with a grip of unshaking hand
Clutch tight the scepter of their waning might,
And gaze forth from the shade of their waxing night.
Such men are the rigour of a state, yet still,
Many have bewailed the deeds, and many yet will,
To whom there is no progeny and no heirs do suffice.
The door of death behind them casts a breath of ice,
And what they feel in their backs, others in their grip,
For age makes blunt even remorse's wailing whip.
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