Trees, and Other Poems

Old Poets

     (For Robert Cortez Holliday)

     If I should live in a forest
      And sleep underneath a tree,
     No grove of impudent saplings
      Would make a home for me.

     I'd go where the old oaks gather,
      Serene and good and strong,
     And they would not sigh and tremble
      And vex me with a song.

     The pleasantest sort of poet
      Is the poet who's old and wise,
     With an old white beard and wrinkles
      About his kind old eyes.

     For these young flippertigibbets
      A-rhyming their hours away
     They won't be still like honest men
      And listen to what you say.

     The young poet screams forever
      About his sex and his soul;
     But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe,
      And polishes its bowl.

     There should be a club for poets
      Who have come to seventy year.
     They should sit in a great hall drinking
      Red wine and golden beer.

     They would shuffle in of an evening,
      Each one to his cushioned seat,
     And there would be mellow talking
      And silence rich and sweet.

     There is no peace to be taken
      With poets who are young,
     For they worry about the wars to be fought
      And the songs that must be sung.

     But the old man knows that he's in his chair
      And that God's on His throne in the sky.
     So he sits by the fire in comfort
      And he lets the world spin by.