Classic Poem

Heavy and drooping,
By himself stooping,
Half of his body left,
Of all his mind bereft,
Antiquate positive,
Forgotten causative, —
Yet he still picks the ground,
Though his spade makes no sound,
Thin fingers are weak,
And elbows a-peak.

He talks to himself,
Of what he remembers.
Rakes over spent embers,
Recoineth past pelf,
Dreams backwards alone,
Of time gnawing the bone.
Too simple for folly,
Too wise for content,
Not brave melancholy,
Or knave eminent,
Slouched hat, and loose breeches,
And gaping with twitches, —
Old coin found a-ploughing,
Curious but cloying,
How he gropes in the sun,
And spoils what he's done.