If I count my life by the beat, throb, beat,
Of the weary heart in my breast,
If I count by the aims that have met defeat,
And the vain, vain search for rest,
If I count by tears,
And by haunting fears,
By hopes that were all in vain,
By dear trusts shattered,
And good ships battered,
And lost on the treacherous main,
By faith unfounded,
And love death-wounded,
If I reckon it thus, why then
Counting this way, I have lived, we'll say,
Full three-score years, and ten.
1870