Robert William Service (Роберт Уильям Сервис)
At Eighty Years
As nothingness draws near How I can see Inexorably clear My vanity. My sum of worthiness Always so small, Dwindles from less to less To none at all. As grisly destiny Claims me at last, How grievous seem to me Sins of my past! How keen a conscience edge Can come to be! How pitiless the dredge Of memory! Ye proud ones of the earth Who count your gains, What cherish you of worth For all your pains? E'er death shall slam the door, Will you, like me, Face fate and count the score-- FUTILITY.
Robert William Service’s other poems:
922
