HIS fourscore years and five <br />Are gone, like a tale that is told. <br />The quick tears start, there ’s an ache at the heart, <br />For we never thought him old. <br /> <br />Straight as a mountain pine, <br />With the mountain eagle’s eye, <br />With the hand-clasp strong, and the unhushed song, <br />Was it time for him to die? <br /> <br />Prophet and priest he stood <br />In the storm of embattled years; <br />The broken chain was his harp’s refrain, <br />And the peace that is balm for tears. <br /> <br />The hills and the valleys knew <br />The poet who kept their tryst. <br />To our common life and our daily strife <br />He brought the blessing of Christ. <br /> <br />And we never thought him old, <br />Though his locks were white as snow. <br />O heart of gold, grown suddenly cold, <br />It was not time to go!<br /><br />Margaret Elizabeth Sangster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/whittier-2/
