On the trunk of a worn-out tree—
A poor old man—for his held-out hat
Was a symbol of beggary.
Death drew quite near, till the old man’s eyes
Were raised to his wrinkled face;
With a frighten’d look of wild surprise,
He rose from his resting-place.
“I come to succor,” Death mildly said,
But the old man would depart—
Again he look’d, and shook his head,