I mourn the slipping days of youth That more than other men I supped For Age kept mum his awful truth, Not saying time would soon be up. On foot he did not take his fling Or horseback. No. How did he go? Suddenly in a burst of wings. Not one souvenir did he throw. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BABY MAY by WILLIAM COX BENNETT FRIENDSHIP by RALPH WALDO EMERSON TO HIS DEAD BODY by SIEGFRIED SASSOON THE PLOUGHMAN by KARLE WILSON BAKER UNDERTONES by GRACE HOLBROOK BLOOD SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: HER NAME LIBERTY by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. THE COMING OF THE LORD by EDWARD CARPENTER |