Song of the wave / George Cabot Lodge [electronic text]

AGE

ART thou not cold? Brother, alone to-night on God's great earth; Art thou not cold? In years of old The simple, tender, rude, Strong love of men was thine, the fire-bright hearth Where now is silence of long solitude.

Art thou not old? Withered and white in these uncounted days; Art thou not old? Thy tale is told, And quite forgot as thou, To whom the world flung out a moment's praise, Then tore the laurel from thy bleeding brow.

Art thou not sad? Dost thou not feel the welling of great tears? Art thou not sad? How grave and glad They rest, the quiet dead; And thou—how dost thou live in these dim years?— Thy heart has begged from God and starved for bread.

Shalt thou not die, Brother? the chill is fearful on thy life. Shalt thou not die? Is this a lie, This threadbare hope—of death? A lie like God, and human love, and strife For pride and fame—this soiled and withered wreath?

Art thou not cold? Brother, alone on God's great earth to-night; Art thou not cold?

Art thou not old And dying and forlorn? Art thou not choking in the last stern fight While in divine indifference glows the morn?