Look at this skin—at fourscore years

Look at his skin—at four-score years
—How fresh it gleams and fair:
He never tasted ill-dressed food,
—Or breathed in tainted air.
The noble blood glows through his veins
—Still, with a healthful pink;
His brow scarce wrinkled!—Brows keep so
—That have not got to think.

Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.