the heath, stanza 1

The old man's sing-song whistling empties night
of promise, hope and passion, even breath.
Inside his skull, his left brain tries to right
itself, remember when her lisping 'yeth'
had brought him rapture.  Rupturing his sight,
a scythe recovers moonbeams.  He meets Death.
But Death for this old man holds no more fears.
He's walked here whistling for Him forty years.