Classic Poem

Now am I, that have passed the space of ninety years, as though on a day I had stripped off the cheek-straps of my bridle;
I raise myself painfully on three supports, by the help of my hands
?and a staff, and after that I stand upright.
The Daughters of Time have shot at me from a place which I
?could not see: and how should he fare who is shot at, while he cannot shoot in reply?
Yea, if it were an arrow that shot me, I could have defended myself
?against it: but I am shot with that which is not a shaft.
When men see me they say—“Art thou not he that but lately was
?bright with new arms and armour, no sluggish fighter?”
Yea, I perish: but of Time I cannot kill even a night; and that which
?I slay of him amounts not even to a thread for stringing beads upon.
I am slain by looking forward to day and night, and looking onward
?to year after year.