And fourscore winters seem'd he to have past;
His thread-bare coat the supple osier bound,
And with slow feet he press'd the sodden ground;
Where, as he heard the wild-wing'd Eurus blow,
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He shook, from locks as white, December's snow;
Inured to storm, his soul ne'er bid it cease,
But lock'd within him meditated peace.
"Father," I said—for silver hairs inspire,
And oft I call the bending peasant Sire—