I sit among the hoary trees With Aristotle on my knees, And turn with serious hand the pages, Lost in the cobweb-hush of ages; When suddenly with no more sound Than any sunbeam on the ground, The little hermit of the place Is peering down into my face— The slim gray hermit of the rocks, With bright inquisitive, quick eyes, His life a round of harks and shocks, A little ripple of surprise. Now lifted up, intense and still, Sprung from the silence of the hill, He hangs upon the ledge a-glisten, And his whole body seems to listen! My pages give a little start, And he is gone! to be a part Of the old cedar's crumpled bark, A mottled scar, a weather-mark! How halt am I, how mean of birth, Beside this darting pulse of earth! I only have the wit to look Into a big presumptuous book, To find some sage's rigid plan To tell me how to be a man. Tradition lays its dead hand cold Upon our youth—and we are old. But this wise hermit, this gray friar, He has no law but heart's desire. He somehow touches higher truth, The circle of eternal youth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WAR IS KIND: 21 by STEPHEN CRANE MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME by STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER THE GROVES OF BLARNEY by RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN EPITAPH ON HIMSELF by MATTHEW PRIOR THE CLOUD by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |