Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/111

 AD is old Ben Tristlewaite,
 * Now his day is done,

And all his children
 * Far away are gone.

He sits beneath his jasmined porch,
 * His stick between his knees,

His eyes fixed vacant
 * On his moss-grown trees.

Grass springs in the green path,
 * His flowers are lean and dry,

His thatch hangs in wisps against
 * The evening sky.

He has no heart to care now,
 * Though the winds will blow

Whistling in his casement,
 * And the rain drip through.

He thinks of his old Bettie,
 * How she'd shake her head and say,

"You'll live to wish my sharp old tongue
 * Could scold — some day."