Old Poets
If I should live in a forestAnd sleep underneath a tree,No grove of impudent saplingsWould make a home for me.
I'd go where the old oaks gather,Serene and good and strong,And they would not sigh and trembleAnd vex me with a song.
The pleasantest sort of poetIs the poet who's old and wise,With an old white beard and wrinklesAbout his kind old eyes.
For these young flippertigibbetsA-rhyming their hours awayThey won't be still like honest menAnd listen to what you say.
The young poet screams foreverAbout his sex and his soul;But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe,And polishes its bowl.
There should be a club for poetsWho have come to seventy year.They should sit in a great hall drinkingRed wine and golden beer.
They would shuffle in of an evening,Each one to his cushioned seat,And there would be mellow talkingAnd silence rich and sweet.
There is no peace to be takenWith poets who are young,For they worry about the wars to be foughtAnd the songs that must be sung.
But the old man knows that he's in his chairAnd that God's on His throne in the sky.So he sits by the fire in comfortAnd he lets the world spin by.
About this text
Old Poets is in the public domain. This text is taken from Trees, and Other Poems, Project Gutenberg ebook #263; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Joyce Kilmer, Old Poets, in Trees and Other Poems (1914), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #263, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/kilmer-trees/old-poets.html, id L12892.
Form and metre
Old Poets is 36 lines in 9 stanzas of 4 lines each. The metre is common measure, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 76%). 93% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 7.7 syllables. 13 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 44% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in common measure.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 -A-A forest · treeA · saplings · meA
- 2 -A-A gather · strongA · tremble · songA
- 3 -A-A poet · wiseA · wrinkles · eyesA
- 4 -A-A flippertigibbets · awayA · men · sayA
- 5 -A-A forever · soulA · pipe · bowlA
- 6 -A-A poets · yearA · drinking · beerA
- 7 -A-A evening · seatA · talking · sweetA
- 8 -A-A taken · youngA · fought · sungA
- 9 -A-A chair · skyA · comfort · byA
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against common measure. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| If I should live in a forest | 8 | ······/˘ |
| And sleep underneath a tree, | 7 | ···˘/·· |
| No grove of impudent saplings | 8 | ···/˘˘/˘ |
| Would make a home for me. | 6 | ······ |
| I'd go where the old oaks gather, | 8 | ······/˘ |
| Serene and good and strong, | 6 | ˘/···· |
| And they would not sigh and tremble | 8 | ······/˘ |
| And vex me with a song. | 6 | ······ |
| The pleasantest sort of poet | 8 | ·/˘˘··/˘ |
| Is the poet who's old and wise, | 8 | ··/˘···· |
| With an old white beard and wrinkles | 8 | ······/˘ |
| About his kind old eyes. | 6 | ······ |
| For these young flippertigibbets | 8 | ········ |
| A-rhyming their hours away | 8 | ·/˘·/˘˘/ |
| They won't be still like honest men | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| And listen to what you say. | 7 | ·/˘···· |
| The young poet screams forever | 8 | ··/˘·˘/˘ |
| About his sex and his soul; | 7 | ······· |
| But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe, | 10 | ····/˘···· |
| And polishes its bowl. | 6 | ·/˘˘·· |
| There should be a club for poets | 8 | ······/˘ |
| Who have come to seventy year. | 8 | ····/˘˘· |
| They should sit in a great hall drinking | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Red wine and golden beer. | 6 | ···/˘· |
| They would shuffle in of an evening, | 9 | ··/˘···/˘ |
| Each one to his cushioned seat, | 8 | ····/˘˘· |
| And there would be mellow talking | 8 | ····/˘/˘ |
| And silence rich and sweet. | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| There is no peace to be taken | 8 | ······/˘ |
| With poets who are young, | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| For they worry about the wars to be fought | 11 | ··/˘······· |
| And the songs that must be sung. | 7 | ······· |
| But the old man knows that he's in his chair | 10 | ·········· |
| And that God's on His throne in the sky. | 9 | ········· |
| So he sits by the fire in comfort | 9 | ·····/·/˘ |
| And he lets the world spin by. | 7 | ······· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.