Poems (Hoffman)/Too Late
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For works with similar titles, see Too Late.
TOO LATE
In his arm-chair the old man sat, his head
Rested so heavy on his wrinkled hand,
One gray lock by the evening breezes fanned
Moved on his forehead, thus the merry band
Of revelers found him, spoke his name and said:
"Awake to fortune, leave thy lonely hearth
The world at last has recognized thy worth."
He moved not, and they saw that he was dead.
Rested so heavy on his wrinkled hand,
One gray lock by the evening breezes fanned
Moved on his forehead, thus the merry band
Of revelers found him, spoke his name and said:
"Awake to fortune, leave thy lonely hearth
The world at last has recognized thy worth."
He moved not, and they saw that he was dead.
Dead and alone in poverty, yet calm
Was his cold brow and on his lips a sweet triumphant look,
The outward vestage of an inward prayer
As one who suffered long,
A sweetness like the sadness of a song;
Angels had told him what, alas! too late
Men came to tell him, that his soul was great.
Was his cold brow and on his lips a sweet triumphant look,
The outward vestage of an inward prayer
As one who suffered long,
A sweetness like the sadness of a song;
Angels had told him what, alas! too late
Men came to tell him, that his soul was great.