Classic Poem

I know not why, in my old age,
That I am poor and in distress;
A vigorous prisoner in a cage,
Alert in mind, with health to bless;
Ripened in years, with wiser ways
Than in my callow youthful days.
I am forsaken—in the cold,
Only because I have grown old.

What matters that, in worldly strife,
I lead an upright, temperate life—
Have vital sap in all my veins
And summer lightning in my brains—
What matters that I still can write
Up to my once meridian flight—
To every plea one tale is told:
“We want you not; you are too old!”

But God knows why I am forlorn:
There is a better brighter land
Where Lazarus, in eternal morn,
Sees Dives with his burning brand.
Thus helmeted with Faith and Hope,
I cheerly wait the coming end,
Content on this poor earth to grope,
So I, one day, to God ascend!