I looked upon the old walls of my land —
Once they were strong, and now they fall away.
Tired with the march of age, thy may not stay —
Their strength has vanished, and they scarcely stand.
I went out to the fields, and from the sand
The sun drank up the brooks that broke to play
And drank the crying flocks that stole the day
From off the mountain with their shadowy band.
I went into my house, and there I found
The rotted leavings of an ancient race:
I found my staff more twisted and less sound,
I felt my sword that crumbled in the breath
Of age, and saw no thing in all the place
That did not seem a harbinger of death.