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Robert W Service - At Eighty Years
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As nothingness draws near
          How I can see
Inexorably clear
          My vanity.
My sum of worthiness
          Always so small,
Dwindles from less to less
          To none at all.

As grisly destiny
          Claims me at last,
How grievous seem to me
          Sins of my past!
How keen a conscience edge
          Can come to be!
How pitiless the dredge
          Of memory!

Ye proud ones of the earth
          Who count your gains,
What cherish you of worth
          For all your pains?
E`er death shall slam the door,
          Will you, like me,
Face fate and count the score—
          FUTILITY.
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