Classic Poem

I saw him sitting in his door,
—Trembling as old men do;
His house was old; his barn was old,
—And yet his eyes seemed new.

His eyes had seen three times my years
—And kept a twinkle still,
Though they had looked at birth and death
—And three graves on a hill.

“I will sit down with you,” I said,
—“And you will make me wise;
Tell me how you have kept the joy
—Still burning in your eyes.”

Then like an old-time orator
—Impressively he rose;
“I make the most of all that comes,
—The least of all that goes.”

The jingling rhythm of his words
—Echoes as old songs do,
Yet this had kept his eyes alight
—Till he was ninety-two.