The Octogenarian

She gropes along the lofty road, The lonely road of age; The friends she loved in youth no more Her pangs of grief assuage; They stopped one at a time beside The long trail left behind; She mounts alone at eighty-odd, Halt—deaf, and nearly blind.

She dimly sees the younger folk Go dancing on their way, And catches faint, far echoes of Their mirth, from day to day; But life, for her, has lost its joy, Its laughter and its zest; She meekly waits for death to come And bring its promised rest.