When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die? - Thomas Hood

I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.

We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

There's not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy.