I saw the musty shingles of my house,

raw wood and crisp once, now a wash of moss

eroded by the ruin of age

that turns all fair and green things into waste.

I climbed the pasture, saw the dim sun drink

the ice just thawing from the bouldered fallow,

and higher up, the pawing cattle bellow,

and with their scabs consume the light of day.

I went into my house and saw how dust

and blotches had devoured its furnishing;

even my cane was withered and more bent,

even my sword was coffined up in rust --

there was no hilt left for the hand to try.

Everything ached, and told me I must die. bobby.lowell.