When the Old Man Smokes
In the forenoon’s restful quiet,When the boys are off at school,When the window lights are shadedAnd the chimney-corner cool,Then the old man seeks his armchair,Lights his pipe and settles back;Falls a-dreaming as he draws itTill the smoke-wreaths gather black.
And the tear-drops come a-tricklingDown his cheeks, a silver flow—Smoke or memories you wonder,But you never ask him,—no;For there ‘s something almost sacredTo the other family folksIn those moods of silent dreamingWhen the old man smokes.
Ah, perhaps he sits there dreamingOf the love of other daysAnd of how he used to lead herThrough the merry dance’s maze;How he called her “little princess,”And, to please her, used to twineTender wreaths to crown her tresses,From the “matrimony vine.”
Then before his mental visionComes, perhaps, a sadder day,When they left his little princessSleeping with her fellow clay.How his young heart throbbed, and pained him!Why, the memory of it chokes!Is it of these things he ‘s thinkingWhen the old man smokes?
But some brighter thoughts possess him,For the tears are dried the while.And the old, worn face is wrinkledIn a reminiscent smile,From the middle of the foreheadTo the feebly trembling lip,At some ancient prank rememberedOr some long unheard-of quip.
Then the lips relax their tensionAnd the pipe begins to slide,Till in little clouds of ashes,It falls softly at his side;And his head bends low and lowerTill his chin lies on his breast,And he sits in peaceful slumberLike a little child at rest.
Dear old man, there ‘s something sad’ning,In these dreamy moods of yours,Since the present proves so fleeting,All the past for you endures.Weeping at forgotten sorrows,Smiling at forgotten jokes;Life epitomized in minutes,When the old man smokes.