Classic Poem

Too late thy honeyed words,
Too late thy tears;
A life is told by grief,
And not by years.

And I have lived the woe
In one brief day
Of twice three-score and ten —
My heart is gray.

Thou canst not stir its pulse
With hope nor fear;
The day is well-nigh done,
And night is near.

Go! bathe no more the brow
Thy lips once pressed —
For I am weary now,
And I would rest.