By William Wordsworth
He was seventy-six years old himself at the time.
lose their object; Time
; and, lodged in memory,
If love exist no longer
, it must die,--
Wanting accustomed food, must pass from earth
Or never hope to reach a second birth
This sad belief, the happiest that is left
To thousands, share not Thou; howe'er bereft,
, or neglected
, fear not such a dearth.
Though poor and destitute of friends
Perhaps the sole survivor
of thy race,
One to whom Heaven
assigns that mournful part
The utmost solitude of age
Still shall be left some corner of the heart
Where Love for living Thing
can find a place.