Age

I will not rail, or grieve when torpid eld
Frosts the slow-journeying blood, for I shall see
The lovelier leaves hang yellow on the tree.
The nimbler brooks in icy fetters held.

Methinks the aged eye that first beheld
The fitful ravage of December wild,
Then knew himself indeed dear Nature's child,
Seeing the common doom, that all compelled.

No kindred we to her beloved broods
If, dying these, we drew a selfish breath;
But one path travel all her multitudes,
And none dispute the solemn Voice that saith:

"Sun to thy setting; to your autumn, woods;
Stream to thy sea; and man unto thy death."