Sonnet Ccxxx:

When I review the long procession gone Out of this being through the gates of death-- The parents, friends, the hearts that drew their breath In more than semblance, for my sake alone; When I contemplate each memorial stone, Placed like fate's finger on the dust beneath, And hang on each my sorrow's votive wreath, I feel, alas, how far my days have flown! Aged I feel, for all my body's might, For all the days that yet may be in store-- Aged and woebegone, and bankrupt quite; As some poor straggler, wounded and footsore, Left by the wayside, sees how more and more His passing comrades vanish from his sight.