The old house totters‘ neath its weight of years,
Bowed, like the form of him who shelters there,
Old, friendless, lone — save for the wanton, Care,
Who flouts him, mocks his grief with gibes and jeers
And laughs to see his piteous hopes grow fears.
Not his the joy of placid, sun-crowned age —
His dim eyes falter as he scans the page
Of Life's worn album, blotted with his tears.
He sees in dreams the wife he loved — long dead;
The son — once proud to bear his father's name —
Who mixed his honest blood with dire disgrace;
The wayward girl who wrought her father shame...
He sits alone with Care; the day has fled
And twilight falls, upon the furrowed face.