Nothing at All

There was a man was very old:
He sat beside a little fire,
And watched the flame begin to tire.

He held his hands out to the heat,
And in his voice was half a scold,
Informed Creation he was cold.

And very, very feeble, too:
He could not lift up from his seat
To reach the fuel at his feet.

"Perhaps," said he, "God does not know
That I am nearly frozen through;
He might not like it if He knew.

"For an old man cannot stretch,
When his blood's too weak to flow,
Frozen sitting in the snow."

* * * * * * *

Poor old chattering, grumbling wight !
God will hardly come to fetch
Wood for such an ancient wretch.

But He will send you rain more cold,
To quench that little flickering light,
Just like this, and freeze you quite :
. . . Men must die when they are old.

The Hill of Vision [1912]