Conrad, Conrad, aren't you old <br />To sit so late in your mouldy garden? <br />And I think Conrad knows it well, <br />Nursing his knees, too rheumy and cold <br />To warm the wraith of a Forest of Arden. <br /> <br />Neuralgia in the back of his neck, <br />His lungs filling with such miasma, <br />His feet dipping in leafage and muck: <br />Conrad! you've forgotten asthma. <br /> <br />Conrad's house has thick red walls, <br />The log on Conrad's hearth is blazing, <br />Slippers and pipe and tea are served, <br />Butter and toast are meant for pleasing! <br />Still Conrad's back is not uncurved <br />And here's an autumn on him, teasing. <br /> <br />Autumn days in our section <br />Are the most used-up thing on earth <br />(Or in the waters under the earth) <br />Having no more color nor predilection <br />Than cornstalks too wet for the fire, <br />A ribbon rotting on the byre, <br />A man's face as weathered as straw <br />By the summer's flare and winter's flaw.<br /><br />John Crowe Ransom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/conrad-in-twilight/
