In the Old Age of the Soul
I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me
Some strange old lust for deeds.
As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior
Te sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet
Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning,
So to my soul grown old –
Grown ole with many a jousting, many a foray,
Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-going –
Till now they send him dreams and no more deed;
So doth he flame again with might for action,
Forgetful of the council of elders,
So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.