I Was Not in Very Good Kind of Myself

I overtook this quaint rider as he rode alone, my active feet being more than a match for the shaky limbs of that mean beast he sat upon. His head was sunk and his grizzled white beard fell over his chest. His eyes were fixed in vacant stare on some vision of the future. And his lips moved tremulously now and again as the thoughts of his mind escaped unheeded from between them. Was he poet? Was he seer? Was it a black past or? A red rosy ture? The old fellow babbled. Of jove. I was not in very good kind myself. But by the great gods, i was neat and pretty pied