Sonnet Ccxxx: Poem by George Henry Boker

When I review the long procession gone
Out of this being through the gates of death--
The parents, friends, the hearts that drew their breath
In more than semblance, for my sake alone;
When I contemplate each memorial stone,
Placed like fate's finger on the dust beneath,
And hang on each my sorrow's votive wreath,
I feel, alas, how far my days have flown!
Aged I feel, for all my body's might,
For all the days that yet may be in store--
Aged and woebegone, and bankrupt quite;
As some poor straggler, wounded and footsore,
Left by the wayside, sees how more and more
His passing comrades vanish from his sight.