When will the grave shelter thy few gray hairs, <br />O aged man! Thy sand is almost run, <br />And many a year, in vain, to meet the sun, <br />Thine eyes have rolled in darkness; want and cares <br />Have been thy visitants from morn to morn. <br />While trembling on existence thou dost live, <br />Accept what human charity can give; <br />But standing thus, time-palsied, and forlorn, <br />Like a scathed oak, of all its boughs bereft, <br />God and the grave are thy best refuge left. <br />When the bells rung, and summer's smiling ray <br />Welcomed again the merry Whitsuntide, <br />And all my humble villagers were gay; <br />I saw thee sitting on the highway side, <br />To feel once more the warm sun's blessed beam: <br />Didst thou then think upon thy own gay prime, <br />On such a holiday, and the glad time <br />When thou wert young and happy, like a dream <br />Now perished! No; the murmured prayer alone <br />Rose from the trembling lips towards the Throne <br />Of Mercy; that ere spring returned again, <br />And the long winter blew its dreary blast, <br />To sweep the verdure from the fading plain, <br />Thy burden would be dropped, thy sorrows past! <br />O blind and aged man, bowed down with cares, <br />When will the grave shelter thy few gray hairs!<br /><br />William Lisle Bowles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-william-sommers-of-bremhill/
