(For Robert Cortez Holliday) br br If I should live in a forest br And sleep underneath a tree, br No grove of impudent saplings br Would make a home for me. br br I'd go where the old oaks gather, br Serene and good and strong, br And they would not sigh and tremble br And vex me with a song. br br The pleasantest sort of poet br Is the poet who's old and wise, br With an old white beard and wrinkles br About his kind old eyes. br br For these young flippertigibbets br A-rhyming their hours away br They won't be still like honest men br And listen to what you say. br br The young poet screams forever br About his sex and his soul; br But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe, br And polishes its bowl. br br There should be a club for poets br Who have come to seventy year. br They should sit in a great hall drinking br Red wine and golden beer. br br They would shuffle in of an evening, br Each one to his cushioned seat, br And there would be mellow talking br And silence rich and sweet. br br There is no peace to be taken br With poets who are young, br For they worry about the wars to be fought br And the songs that must be sung. br br But the old man knows that he's in his chair br And that God's on His throne in the sky. br So he sits by the fire in comfort br And he lets the world spin by.