His fourscore years have bent a back of oak, His earth-brown cheeks are full of hollow pits; His gnarled hands wander idly as he sits Bending above the hearthstone's feeble smoke. Threescore and ten slow years he tilled the land; He wrung his bread out of the stubborn soil; He saw his masters flourish through his toil; He held their substance in his horny hand. Now he is old: he asks for daily bread: He who has sowed the bread he may not taste Begs for the crumbs: he would do no man wrong. The Parish Guardians, when his case is read, Will grant him, yet with no unseemly haste, Just seventeen pence to starve on, seven days long. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY by ROBERT FROST PICTURE-SHOW by SIEGFRIED SASSOON LA MORT D'ARTHUR by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS by JOANNA BAILLIE THE ORGAN GRINDER by RONALD WALKER BARR IN MEMORIAM W.M. & E.B.J. by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |