The sad resemblance of a grave.
Wert thou e'er young? For truth I hold
20And do believe thou wert born old.
There 's none alive, I'm sure, can say
They knew thee young, but always grey.
And dost thou now, venerable oak,
Decline at Death's unhappy stroke?
Tell me, dear son, why didst thou die
And leave 's to write an elegy?
We're young, alas! and know thee not.