An old man was setting trees out.

Three striplings jeered—all born near there— and told him, “ Build 

Rather than plant at your age, if you must be self-willed”;

Then said, “A dotard, no doubt.

Asking by all that’s heavenly,

Will you eat what’s borne by trees which you are planting here?”

An old man like you should look for Death any year.

Why work laboriously

 Providing nourishment which you must needs forgo? 

Best muse, and deplore the wild oats you’ve about. 

Curb ambition; your fancies can never take root—

Are more appropriate to us, you know.”

    — “And may never fit into youth’s scheme,”

The old man said. “By the time our goal is won

We are mature and near death. The fateful shears, it would seem,

May cut short yours or my own career, either one.

Hope of long life for all here is minute.

Which of us is sure of other days to compute?

Of  admiring the sky  last? What assurance has one,

As a second flies, that he is to have another one?

My grand-nephews will live in the shade cast by this wood. 

Ah! Convince the wise if any could

That there’s no point in taking trouble for posterity.

Thinking of fruit can give is twofold felicity—

Here, prospectively— then in the days Fate has in store. 

I may see the sunrise gild your graves more 

Times than one, for all we know.”

The wise old man knew best. One youth was dealt a mortal blow;

Was drowned by a fall in an American creek.

Bound that he would distinguish himself in some way,

One bore arms for his land whose vengeance he must wreak,

But was sent without warning to Charon’s corvee,

And the third died when branches gave

And he fell with a graft which he was implanting—

All  mourned by the old man  who carved upon each grave 

The story which I have been recounting.