Aged yet able, born of ice and fire, 
He took sad path in high wind, cold hard rain.
Low ways beat his skin, made hope die out.

He rose, time worn, grim game for the next bout,
Her last look gave him need to face the pain,
And make his good will known in muck and mire.

How good was life, that made each man a liar?
Both rich and poor the same; the iron bane
Of time took all and set your host to rout.

He did not like to flee, for any lout
Did find it easy. He, in dark dim vein,
Knew well his ash kept lit in any pyre.