H. C. Bunner

The Story of an Old Man, an Old Man’s Friendship, and a New Card-Basket

THE DOOR is shut—I think the fine old face

Trembles a little, round the under lip;

His look is wistful—can it be the place

Where, at his knock, the bolt was quick to slip

(It had a knocker then), when, bravely decked,

He took, of New Year’s, with his lowest bow,

His glass of egg-nog, white and nutmeg-flecked,

From her who is—where is the young bride now?

O Greenwood, answer! Through your ample gate

There went a hearse, these many years ago;

And often by a grave—more oft of late—

Stands an old gentleman, with hair like snow.

Two graves he stands by, truly; for the friend

Who won her, long has lain beside his wife;

And their old comrade, waiting for the end,

Remembers what they were to him in life.

And now he stands before the old-time door,

A little gladdened in his lonely heart

To give of love for those that are no more

To those that live to-day a generous part.

Ay, She has gone, sweet, loyal, brave, and gay—

But then, her daughter’s grown and wed the while;

And the old custom lingers: New Year’s Day,

Will she not greet him with her mother’s smile?

But things are changed, ah, things are changed you see;

We keep no New Year’s, now, not we—

It’s an old-time day,

And an old-time way,

And an old-time fashion we’ve chosen to cut—

And the dear old man

May wait as he can

In front of the old-time door that’s shut.