His heart was among the senseless things,
That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee’s wings;
It bore no film of delicate pride,
No dew of emotion gathered inside;
O, that old man’s heart was of hardy kind,
That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind.
He had lived in the world as millions live,
Ever more ready to take than give;
He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed,
And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed;