His words, like leaves about a withered tree.
Patiently all the day had he been standing
Where pour the ways their turbid tides along,
Meekly had borne the coldness, and the rudeness,
The jeers and jostlings of the thoughtless throng.
And now at night no home or friend received him;
Few e’er had loved him, his nor cot nor hall,
For he had always walked apart from others,
A mark of marvel, or of jest, to all.
Men lightly heeded him, poor helpless dotard,