The Year's In Wane; There

He Lies Like A Hedgehog Rolled Up The Wrong Way, Tormenting Himself With His Prickles.

When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken, What Can An Old Man Do But Die?

Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty Thieves, And The Book Of Nature Getteth Short Of Leaves.

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.

No Blessed Leisure For Love Or Hope, But Only Time For Grief.