The Old Man and His Old Heart

What remorse have you come to say?

Leave now or do make a pleasant stay,

Said the old man, as he lay in a taut grass of May.

His heart spoke into a shape of clay.


A storied book and crown;

Fairy dream and fairy dust;

Have you come now to but frown?

In ill pursuits to shunt what was just.


Is it all, you seek and dare to keep?

Nothing now more than rubble in a heap.

Above the tainted hearts you dined.

Once claimed by force as “mine”,


But the man said to his old heart;

A young man’s dream I’ve bought and brought.

I’ve wanted it all in a thought to be.

Is there truly nothing more to see?


As time now threads such a spindle I’ve dreaded;

Of what more or less I’ve made unabated,

And a fear furloughed comes to fraught,

So that there is nothing but black rot,


Upon this shape of clay.

Just bury me by olden births of May.

For I have no payment nor pleasance today.

From what remorse you have come to say.

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