Old Man
By Edward Thomas
Old Man, or Lad's-love,—in the name there's nothing
To one that knows not Lad's-love, or Old Man,
The hoar-green feathery herb, almost a tree, *greyish white with a greenish cast
Growing with rosemary and lavender.
Even to one that knows it well, the names
Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is: *the idiosyncrasy of the name
At least, what that is clings not to the names
In spite of time. And yet I like the names. The pause of the full stop conveys that the speaker
is pondering over this matter.
The herb itself I like not, but for certain *Thomas’ characteristic inversion
I love it, as some day the child will love it of syntax
Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush
Whenever she goes in or out of the house.
Often she waits there, snipping the tips and shrivelling
The shreds at last on to the path, perhaps
Thinking, perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs
Her fingers and runs off. The bush is still
But half as tall as she, though it is as old;
So well she clips it. Not a word she says;
And I can only wonder how much hereafter *will this moment of childhood
She will remember, with that bitter scent, also evade his daughter’s memory?
Of garden rows, and ancient damson-trees
Topping a hedge, a bent path to a door,
A low thick bush beside the door, and me *he wonders whether in the future this scent
Forbidding her to pick. will evoke memories of him?
As for myself,
Where first I met the bitter scent is lost. * forgotten childhood memory
I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds,
Sniff them and think and sniff again and try
Once more to think what it is I am remembering,
Always in vain. I cannot like the scent,
Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,
With no meaning, than this bitter one. * a desire to remember the past
By Edward Thomas
Old Man, or Lad's-love,—in the name there's nothing
To one that knows not Lad's-love, or Old Man,
The hoar-green feathery herb, almost a tree, *greyish white with a greenish cast
Growing with rosemary and lavender.
Even to one that knows it well, the names
Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is: *the idiosyncrasy of the name
At least, what that is clings not to the names
In spite of time. And yet I like the names. The pause of the full stop conveys that the speaker
is pondering over this matter.
The herb itself I like not, but for certain *Thomas’ characteristic inversion
I love it, as some day the child will love it of syntax
Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush
Whenever she goes in or out of the house.
Often she waits there, snipping the tips and shrivelling
The shreds at last on to the path, perhaps
Thinking, perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs
Her fingers and runs off. The bush is still
But half as tall as she, though it is as old;
So well she clips it. Not a word she says;
And I can only wonder how much hereafter *will this moment of childhood
She will remember, with that bitter scent, also evade his daughter’s memory?
Of garden rows, and ancient damson-trees
Topping a hedge, a bent path to a door,
A low thick bush beside the door, and me *he wonders whether in the future this scent
Forbidding her to pick. will evoke memories of him?
As for myself,
Where first I met the bitter scent is lost. * forgotten childhood memory
I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds,
Sniff them and think and sniff again and try
Once more to think what it is I am remembering,
Always in vain. I cannot like the scent,
Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,
With no meaning, than this bitter one. * a desire to remember the past
