The little hedgerow birds
That peck along the road, regard him not
He travels on, and in his face, his step
His gait, is one expression: every limb
His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought — He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
Long patience hat such mild composure given
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect that the young behold
With envy, what the Old man hardly feels