The little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the road, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression; every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought—He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten, one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given,
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. His is by nature led
To peace so perfect, that the young behold
With envy, what the old man hardly feels.