Classic Poem

He was a mighty pleasant sight,
This aged, snowy-headed wight,
Who though his knees were badly sprung
At seventy was still so young
That in his heart still rang the lays
He sang back in his boyhood days.

His step was slow, and insecure.
His sight was not completely sure,
Yet from his eyes a soul looked out
He'd ever kept so free from doubt
That it was matter small to him
To find his vision growing dim.

He'd made a vow back in his youth
That come what would of joy or ruth,
That come what would of peace or pain,
Of days all bright, of hours of rain,
He'd use his heart to store away
One bit of sunshine every day.

This vow he kept, and year by year
He added to his stock of cheer,
And strange to say, though it is true,
Each stored-up sun-ray doubly grew
Until to-day his stores of pelf
Are rivals to the sun itself.

Ah, dear old friend! What joy to see
A wight whose score is seventy,
Deep in the winter of his life,
So full of light, so free from strife,
That in his presence there doth ring
The notes of everlasting spring!