Classic Poem

Thy willing master, when thy years were young,
Proud of thy flying feet and flowing mane,
Upon thee clomb the hills or scoured the plain,
And round his prancing steed rich trappings hung.
Now thou art old. The echoing hills that rung
To thy loud neighings now are still; the rain
Pelts thy unsheltered head; nor doth remain
One friend of all that kindly round thee clung.
'Tis thus with him who for his Master takes
The hard and heartless world. When young and strong,
It honors him; when old and gray, forsakes.
My Master , when old age makes dim mine eyes,
Will leave me dark and comfortless not long:
There is for me a new home — Paradise!