Poems (Forrest)/Old men
OLD MEN
I see them sometimes in the sunny street,
Old men who lean on sticks or walk alone
With drooping shoulders; old men who have seen
The passions that Youth fosters sink and die;
Old men who once were fire themselves, who now
Close careful fingers over some cold coin
That brings just food and shelter—these two things
Become essential—shutting out all else!
Old men who lean on sticks or walk alone
With drooping shoulders; old men who have seen
The passions that Youth fosters sink and die;
Old men who once were fire themselves, who now
Close careful fingers over some cold coin
That brings just food and shelter—these two things
Become essential—shutting out all else!
And I know
Old men who live from morning until night
In corners of dim libraries, and pore
Over dark, tattered books, who until death
Will keep a thirst for knowledge, strange old men
Whose brains are clear and strong; the body bent,
Once supple limbs stiff as some wintry bough.
Gnarled jointed fingers, where a woman's hand
Had once lain warm, and leathern wrinkled cheeks
A bride's rose mouth had pressed so long ago.
He has all but forgotten how she lay
Within his arms to make of him a god;
Old men in shadow in the summer-time,
With nodding heads and blinking eyes; old men
Shivering in winter in a patch of sun;
Old men in gardens talking politics
In names long gone from Life's electoral roll;
Old men who can remember wooden ships
And days of link boys, and when Dickens wrote
His serials, month by month, and how they strove
To save up pennies that a lad might learn
The ending of the chapter as it came
From that grey house in London where he wrote.
Old men who live from morning until night
In corners of dim libraries, and pore
Over dark, tattered books, who until death
Will keep a thirst for knowledge, strange old men
Whose brains are clear and strong; the body bent,
Once supple limbs stiff as some wintry bough.
Gnarled jointed fingers, where a woman's hand
Had once lain warm, and leathern wrinkled cheeks
A bride's rose mouth had pressed so long ago.
He has all but forgotten how she lay
Within his arms to make of him a god;
Old men in shadow in the summer-time,
With nodding heads and blinking eyes; old men
Shivering in winter in a patch of sun;
Old men in gardens talking politics
In names long gone from Life's electoral roll;
Old men who can remember wooden ships
And days of link boys, and when Dickens wrote
His serials, month by month, and how they strove
To save up pennies that a lad might learn
The ending of the chapter as it came
From that grey house in London where he wrote.
Some chuckle as they tell the oft-told tale;
The voices quaver as the stories grow—
Voices that once were wont to boast and shout
In lusty arrogance of ardent youth:
The eyes are deprecating, for they seek
Affection from the young, though it be doled
In paltry measure. Youth has much to give,
And spills a little of its treasure here!
Kind, and, if careless, kind at any rate!
Crumbs from his board is all that old men crave,
And some sit silently, remembering,
And now and then will laugh, and then will sigh;
Only the dead years know what they recall.
At times one stoops to pluck a violet,
Creaking in every joint and breathing loud,
And in the presence of mere Middle Age,
Wistful, apologetic, as Old Age
Learns to be at the last to those who shove
Him from his niche, too greedy for his place,
Forgetful of the decent interval, to leap
At Chance, and leave him waiting only death.
The voices quaver as the stories grow—
Voices that once were wont to boast and shout
In lusty arrogance of ardent youth:
The eyes are deprecating, for they seek
Affection from the young, though it be doled
In paltry measure. Youth has much to give,
And spills a little of its treasure here!
Kind, and, if careless, kind at any rate!
Crumbs from his board is all that old men crave,
And some sit silently, remembering,
And now and then will laugh, and then will sigh;
Only the dead years know what they recall.
At times one stoops to pluck a violet,
Creaking in every joint and breathing loud,
And in the presence of mere Middle Age,
Wistful, apologetic, as Old Age
Learns to be at the last to those who shove
Him from his niche, too greedy for his place,
Forgetful of the decent interval, to leap
At Chance, and leave him waiting only death.
It breaks my heart to see these old men go,
Slowly and sadly, in the hurrying street;
Neglected, overlooked by all but Time.
Slowly and sadly, in the hurrying street;
Neglected, overlooked by all but Time.