OLD MEN
I see them sometimes in the sunny street,Old men who lean on sticks or walk aloneWith drooping shoulders; old men who have seenThe passions that Youth fosters sink and die;Old men who once were fire themselves, who nowClose careful fingers over some cold coinThat brings just food and shelter—these two thingsBecome essential—shutting out all else!
And I knowOld men who live from morning until nightIn corners of dim libraries, and poreOver dark, tattered books, who until deathWill keep a thirst for knowledge, strange old menWhose brains are clear and strong; the body bent,Once supple limbs stiff as some wintry bough.Gnarled jointed fingers, where a woman's handHad once lain warm, and leathern wrinkled cheeksA bride's rose mouth had pressed so long ago.He has all but forgotten how she layWithin his arms to make of him a god;Old men in shadow in the summer-time,With nodding heads and blinking eyes; old menShivering in winter in a patch of sun;Old men in gardens talking politicsIn names long gone from Life's electoral roll;
