Writhen and grey as an old shank of heather,
Tending his flock, I met John Armitage,
Who bleated at me like an old bell-wether —
Your grandfather and I were of an age.

Though through my very bones the snell wind whistled,
Or, so it seemed, on that storm-scoured fell,
Still those old toothless jaws, so lank and grizzled,
Piped — And your father, too, I knew him well .

And, as he talked, the life within me dwindled ...
And I, the wraith of one whose day was done,
Stood watching him, still hale, with blue eyes kindled,
Telling the same tale to my unborn son.