An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.
The hare grows old as she plays in the sun And gazes around her with eyes of brightness; Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done She limps along in an aged whiteness.
I had a chair at every hearth, When no one turned to see, With 'Look at that old fellow there, 'And who may he be?
You think it horrible that lust and rage Should dance attention upon my old age; They were not such a plague when I was young; What else have I to spur me into song?
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