Whittier

His fourscore years and five Are gone, like a tale that is told. The quick tears start, there ’s an ache at the heart, For we never thought him old. Straight as a mountain pine, With the mountain eagle’s eye, With the hand-clasp strong, and the unhushed song, Was it time for him to die? Prophet and priest he stood In the storm of embattled years; The broken chain was his harp’s refrain, And the peace that is balm for tears. The hills and the valleys knew The poet who kept their tryst. To our common life and our daily strife He brought the blessing of Christ. And we never thought him old, Though his locks were white as snow. O heart of gold, grown suddenly cold, It was not time to go!

Collection: 
English
Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

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