Sonnet CCXXX:
When I review the long procession gone
Out of this being through the gates of death—
The parents, friends, the hearts that drew their breath
In more than semblance, for my sake alone;
When I contemplate each memorial stone,
Placed like fate’s finger on the dust beneath,
And hang on each my sorrow’s votive wreath,
I feel, alas, how far my days have flown!
Aged I feel, for all my body’s might,
For all the days that yet may be in store—
Aged and woebegone, and bankrupt quite;
As some poor straggler, wounded and footsore,
Left by the wayside, sees how more and more
His passing comrades vanish from his sight.
