I will fling ambition away 

 Like a vain and glittering toy; 

 With tristful weeping will I pray 

 And wash my sin's alloy. 

 I will wear the palmer's weed 

 And walk in the sandal shoon. 

 I will walk in the sun by day 

 And sleep beneath the moon. 

 I will set forth as the bells toll 

 And travel to the East, 

 Because of a sin upon my soul 

 And the chiding of a priest. 

 

 

 The Song of the Old Men. 

 We are the old, old men, 

 Once fierce and high-hearted in frolics, 

 But now we are three score and ten 

 Or upwards—mere relics 

 Of the fine strong pageant of youth, 

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