Octogenarian

He drowses all the morning now,

His eyes set on the plum tree bough.

He sees the blossoms, only them,

A glimmering whiteness on the stem.

Here is no tree with fruit to come;

He has forgot the leaf, the plum.

Left in this sunny place alone

He takes a harvest of his own.

Drowsily now, and childishly,

He waits the changing of his tree

To stranger whiteness, depths more deep,

To one great flower whose fruit is sleep.