The monk is eighty-seven. There's no fat left on his feet to defend against stones. He forgot his hat, larger in recent years. By a creek he sees a woman he saw fifty summers before, somehow still a girl to him. Once again his hands tremble when she gives him a tin cup of water. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STIRRUP-CUP by LOUIS UNTERMEYER DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: DIRGE FOR WOLFRAM by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES OVERNIGHT, A ROSE by CAROLINE GILTINAN WHAT THE BULLET SANG by FRANCIS BRET HARTE ACCIDENT IN ART by RICHARD HOVEY THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE FUGITIVE by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA |