On one who lived and died where he was born Thomas Hardy

When a night in November
       &nbsp Blew forth its bleared airs
An infant descended
       &nbsp His birth-chamber stairs
       &nbsp For the very first time,
       &nbsp At the still, midnight chime;
All unapprehended
       &nbsp His mission, his aim. -
Thus, first, one November,
An infant descended
       &nbsp The stairs.

On a night in November
       &nbsp Of weariful cares,
A frail aged figure
       &nbsp Ascended those stairs
       &nbsp For the very last time:
       &nbsp All gone his life’s prime,
All vanished his vigour,
       &nbsp And fine, forceful frame:
Thus, last, one November
Ascended that figure
       &nbsp Upstairs.

On those nights in November -
       &nbsp Apart eighty years -
The babe and the bent one
       &nbsp Who traversed those stairs
       &nbsp From the early first time
       &nbsp To the last feeble climb -
That fresh and that spent one -
       &nbsp Were even the same:
Yea, who passed in November
As infant, as bent one,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Those stairs.