Stephen Crane

 
    Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground.
    Why do you stand, expectant?
    Do you hope to see it
    In one of your withered days?
    With your old eyes
    Do you hope to see
    The triumphal march of justice?
    Do not wait, friend!
    Take your white beard
    And your old eyes
    To more tender lands.

This poem is public domain