The Poet at the Breakfast-TableHolmes, Oliver Wendell
General
The Poet at the Breakfast-Table
Holmes, Oliver Wendell
American fiction -- 19th century; Conversation -- Fiction; Poetry
We too, who mock at Israel's golden calf
And scoff at Egypt's sacred scarabee,
Would have our amulets to clasp and kiss,
And flood with rapturous tears, and bear with us
To be our dear companions in the dust,
Such magic works an image in our souls!
Man is an embryo; see at twenty years
His bones, the columns that uphold his frame
Not yet cemented, shaft and capital,
Mere fragments of the temple incomplete.
At twoscore, threescore, is he then full grown?
Nay, still a child, and as the little maids
Dress and undress their puppets, so he tries
To dress a lifeless creed, as if it lived,
And change its raiment when the world cries shame!
We smile to see our little ones at play
So grave, so thoughtful, with maternal care
Nursing the wisps of rags they call their babes;
Does He not smile who sees us with the toys
We call by sacred names, and idly feign
To be what we have called them?
He is still The Father of this helpless nursery-brood,
Whose second childhood joins so close its first,
That in the crowding, hurrying years between
We scarce have trained our senses to their task
Before the gathering mist has dimmed our eyes,
And with our hollowed palm we help our ear,
And trace with trembling hand our wrinkled names,
And then begin to tell our stories o'er,
And see--not hear-the whispering lips that say,
“You know--? Your father knew him.--This is he,
Tottering and leaning on the hireling's arm,--”
And so, at length, disrobed of all that clad
The simple life we share with weed and worm,
Go to our cradles, naked as we came.
XI
I suppose there would have been even more remarks upon the growing
intimacy of the Young Astronomer and his pupil, if the curiosity of the
boarders had not in the mean time been so much excited at the apparently
close relation which had sprung up between the Register of Deeds and
the Lady. It was really hard to tell what to make of it. The Register
appeared at the table in a new coat. Suspicious. The Lady was evidently
deeply interested in him, if we could judge by the frequency and the
length of their interviews. On at least one occasion he has brought a
lawyer with him, which naturally suggested the idea that there were
some property arrangements to be attended to, in case, as seems probable
against all reasons to the contrary, these two estimable persons, so
utterly unfitted, as one would say, to each other, contemplated an
alliance. It is no pleasure to me to record an arrangement of this kind.
I frankly confess I do not know what to make of it. With her tastes
and breeding, it is the last thing that I should have thought of,--her
uniting herself with this most commonplace and mechanical person, who
cannot even offer her the elegances and luxuries to which she might seem
entitled on changing her condition.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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