Poems (Forrest)/Old men
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; 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.