He had driven his bargains and counted his gold,
Till upwards of threescore years were told;
And his keen blue eye held nothing to show
That feeling had ever been busy below.
The old man sighed again, and hid
His keen blue eye beneath its lid;
And his wrinkled forehead, bending down,
Was knitting itself in a painful frown.
“I’ve been looking back,” the old man said,
“On every spot where my path has laid,