Robert Southey - The Old Man and Death

The Old Man and Death

A Parable.

Upon the rocky heights where the bud neared, An old man stood in perilous birth; O’er beholdings, the winds designed, To wreck all sight of mirth.

“O why thus waste my aged breath?” He cried—from gloom to light— O’er the fine face where time is fate; But death am I to feel so slight!

Weigh not thy ringlet braids of grey, But send my spirit on!”. For true was spirit all my day, And thus began the morn that shone!

But as the fate-born hour passed well, A voice replied in breath— “Desire not yield your thoughts to hell, But (honor) live till death!”.

Then the old man stood upon the rock, No vigilance missed, nor was he dread; Then he turned and faced the caving shock, And said, “O fates, I tread!”