At threescore years: does he stay his hand
In token of lessening powers?
He takes no note of vanishing time
Save to honor its golden hours.
He only kens 'tis the Master's wish
That his strength be given to win
The harvests of Truth; he scatters the seed,—
And the sheaves are still coming in.
Threescore and ten: he has surely laid
The burden of sowing down?