An old man sitting alone;
His head lay heavy upon his hands,
And sorrowful was his moan.
Old age had shrivelled and bent his frame;
Age and hard work together
Had scattered his locks, and bleared his eyes—
Age and the winter weather.
'Old man,' said Death, 'do you tremble to know
That now you are near the end?'
The old man looked: 'You are Death,' said he,