Poems (Hoffman)/Too Late
For works with similar titles, see Too Late.
TOO LATE
In his arm-chair the old man sat, his headRested so heavy on his wrinkled hand,One gray lock by the evening breezes fannedMoved on his forehead, thus the merry bandOf revelers found him, spoke his name and said:"Awake to fortune, leave thy lonely hearthThe world at last has recognized thy worth."He moved not, and they saw that he was dead.
Dead and alone in poverty, yet calmWas his cold brow and on his lips a sweet triumphant look,The outward vestage of an inward prayerAs one who suffered long,A sweetness like the sadness of a song;Angels had told him what, alas! too lateMen came to tell him, that his soul was great.