30
OLD MEN
Old men who can remember wooden shipsAnd days of link boys, and when Dickens wroteHis serials, month by month, and how they stroveTo save up pennies that a lad might learnThe ending of the chapter as it cameFrom 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 shoutIn lusty arrogance of ardent youth:The eyes are deprecating, for they seekAffection from the young, though it be doledIn 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 AgeLearns to be at the last to those who shoveHim from his niche, too greedy for his place,Forgetful of the decent interval, to leapAt 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.
