The furrows traced by Time's remorseless plough;
Hardy and gnarlèd as the mountain oak,
Bent by the hand of Time but still unbroke;
Bowed by the weight of years and labors done,
A man whose course had neared the setting sun;
His face a blending of the calm and sad,
Paternal-looking, so they called him "Dad."
This man, so near his journey's close,
With great deliberation rose,