The pen slips loosely from his nerveless hands

The worn out brain no longer does its work,

And slowly the noble mind runs out its sands.

Who disliked once to labor, now must shirk,

Dark clouds around his memory chambers lurk;

His ponders o'er the brains commands

An old man gone the dark ways and the murk,

And on his brow age lays an icy hand.

The thought that fills his mind is but regret

For unused days and careless wasted nights.

His life is wholly lived and gone and yet

He weakly strives to work and weakly fights,

Not knowing how to bravely suffer fate

Nor yet that it is late, too late, too late.