 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
AGE, AND THE SCORNER
As I hobble, old and halt,Daily, nightly,
By you, hectoring on the corner,
I know you for a graybeard scorner,
Tho' you raise your hat politely:
346
That I bend with burdening years,
Dull of eye, and dull of ears;
That this poll
Whitens like a flax-wigged doll.
'T is a fault, you think; but wait!
Something marches, men call Fate;
If you, boy! succeed in keeping
Safe from sweep of Old Time's reaping,
You'll be the bent-back one that hobbles
Over the cobbles—
Wondering why, all young at heart,
With the old you're pushed apart.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |