The poem
Oh bear with me, for I am old And count on fingers five The years this pencil I may hold And hope to be alive; How sadly soon our dreaming ends! How brief the sunset glow! Be kindly to the old, my friends: You'll miss them when they go.
I've seen so many disappear That I can scarce forget, For death has made them doubly dear And ripened my regret. How wistfully I've wished them back, With cherishing to show The gentleness I used to lack In years of long ago.
You, young and fit, will falter too, And when Time's load you bear, 'Twill help if others turn to you With comforting and car; With loving look and tender touch . . . Aye, in their twilight wan Revere the old - for Oh how much You'll miss them when they've gone!