An Old Man of the Hills

He ambled along

With never a friend,

With never a song

Some gladness to lend.

His hair lay like snow

On high Alpine peaks,

And furrowed with woe

Were his sunken cheeks.

All offers well –meant

He mutely declined.

He came and he went

Unwelcomed and blind.

He was merely a name,

His secret close-kept;

In a ramshackle frame

He ate and he slept.

It was noticed by few

When he ceased to appear,

And nobody knew

If he let fall a tear.

But one day he was found

With a hole in his chest;

By his side, on the ground,

Was the gun that brought rest.

And no one was shaken

That he was no more.

I pray he will waken

On some kindlier shore!