54891: Old Man

<p dir="ltr"> Old Man, or Lad's-love,---in the name there's nothing<br> To one that knows not Lad's-love, or Old Man,<br> The hoar-green feathery herb, almost a tree,<br> Growing with rosemary and lavender.<br> Even to one that knows it well, the names<br> Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is:<br> At least, what that is clings not to the names<br> In spite of time. And yet I like the names.<br> The herb itself I like not, but for certain<br> I love it, as some day the child will love it<br> Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush<br> Whenever she goes in or out of the house.<br> Often she waits there, snipping the tips and shrivelling<br> The shreds at last on to the path, perhaps<br> Thinking, perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs<br> Her fingers and runs off. The bush is still<br> But half as tall as she, though it is as old;<br> So well she clips it. Not a word she says;<br> And I can only wonder how much hereafter<br> She will remember, with that bitter scent,<br> Of garden rows, and ancient damson trees<br> Topping a hedge, a bent path to a door,<br> A low thick bush beside the door, and me<br> Forbidding her to pick.<br> As for myself,<br> Where first I met the bitter scent is lost.<br> I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds,<br> Sniff them and think and sniff again and try<br> Once more to think what it is I am remembering,<br> Always in vain. I cannot like the scent,<br> Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,<br> With no meaning, than this bitter one.<br> I have mislaid the key. I sniff the spray<br> And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing;<br> Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait<br> For what I should, yet never can, remember:<br> No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush<br> Of Lad's-love, or Old Man, no child beside,<br> Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate;<br> Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end.<br></p>