THERE sat an old man on a rock,
And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,
That concern where we all must take stock,
Though our vote has no hearing or weight;
And the old man sang him an old, old song—
Never sang voice so clear and strong
That it could drown the old man’s for long,
For he sang the song, “Too late! too late!”
When we want, we have for our pains
The promise that if we but wait