Sight grows dim - my power,
Two invisible diamond shafts;
Hearing fails, full of long ago thunder
And the breath of my father's house;
Tough knots of muscle sag
Like grey oxen on the plough-field;
And behind my shoulders at night
No longer shine two wings.

I'm a candle burnt out at the feast.
Gather my wax up at dawn,
And this page will tell you the secret
Of how to weep and where to be proud,
How to distribute the final third
Of delight, and make an easy death,
Then, sheltered by some chance roof,
To blaze, word-like, with posthumous light.