The final springing of the year
May well decay, anon, I fear;
The sun could flaunt its dusk, for then,
I've marked my three score years and ten.

The morning's fire has lit my days
And led astray in many ways.
But twilight dun will trespass when
I glean my three score years and ten.

Yet sadness nil will ill my cheer
About the springtide of the year;
And should I pray, as e'er I sleep,
My three score years and ten to keep.