Page:Songs of exile (IA songsofexile00daviiala).pdf/128

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If into seventy years his life-way wends,

His words are heard no longer; 'tis his fate

To go unheeded. Now upon his friends

Only a burden, he becomes a weight

On his own soul,

And on the staff that bears him to his goal.

(For in the end

He shall return:

As at his birth he was,

So shall he be.)

At eighty years, then is he but a care

Upon his sons; his heart is no more his,

Nor his thoughts with him; only he is there,

Scorned of his neighbors. Yea, his portion is

Gall to the brim,

And wormwood is the morsel now for him.

(For in the end

He shall return: