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TREES AND OTHER POEMS

OLD POETS (continued) 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. [ 23 ]