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. Delicatessen Why is that wanton gossip Fame So dumb about this man's affairs? Why do we titter at his name Who come to buy his curious wares? Here is a shop of wonderment. From every land has come a prize; Rich spices from the Orient, And fruit that knew Italian skies, And figs that ripened by the sea In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil, Strange pungent meats from Germany, And currants from a Grecian hill. He is the lord of goodly things That make the poor man's table gay, Yet of his worth no minstrel sings And on his tomb there is no bay. Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised, This trafficker in humble sweets, Because his little shops are raised By thousands in the city streets. Yet stars in greater numbers shine, And violets in millions grow, And they in many a golden line Are sung, as every child must know. Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes, His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face, His shop, and all he sells and buys Are desperately commonplace. Well, it is true he has no sword To dangle at his booted knees. He leans across a slab of board, And draws his knife and slices cheese. He never heard of chivalry, He longs for no heroic times; He thinks of pickles, olives, tea, And dollars, nickles, cents and dimes. His world has narrow walls, it seems; By counters is his soul confined; His wares are all his hopes and dreams, They are the fabric of his mind.