 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
“Seventy”
O god, I thank Thee for the gift complete,The rounded sum of threescore years and ten—
A life not useless to my fellow-men,
And yet sequestered from their hurrying feet;
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In many a leafy nook and secret glen,
And deigned at times to touch my heart and pen
With thoughts the Muses deemed not all unmeet.
Perchance in after days some word of mine
Will lead a kindred soul to haunts of peace,
Where mirrored woods in tranquil waters shine;
Or lift a drooping heart to hopes divine:
Thus with the allotted years I shall not cease,
Nor with my breath my work on earth resign.
| Lyra Pastoralis | |