The Forty-Year their manhood bought,
By the axe of Time was their vigor felled.
And syne the tracker’s heart is woe,
And the Forty-Year but mocks his ire,—
Yet zone by zone his lean sails go
Till the gilded east meets the western fire.
And the Forty-Year befogged his brain
Fettered his hand and clogged his feet,
And he saw the Past as a wraith of rain ...
And they met by noon on the open street.