Classic Poem

Round in the crumbling convent's yard
The good old Abbot goes;
Waves in the wind his long, gray beard,
White with Time's load of snows.

He with his eyes no more can see;
He gropes about with care;
With fumbling staff what seeketh he?
He counts the grave-stones there.

And, as he counts, and feels each hill,
One still escapes his cane;
He shakes his head and goes, but still,
To-morrow, comes again.

He findeth not, among them all,
The place his old limbs crave;
When the whole pile one day shall fall,
'Twill be the old man's grave.