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Nux Postcoenatica

I was sitting with my microscope, upon my parlor rug,
With a very heavy quarto and a very lively bug;
The true bug had been organized with only two antennae,
But the humbug in the copperplate would have them twice as many.

And I thought, like Dr. Faustus, of the emptiness of art,
How we take a fragment for the whole, and call the whole a part,
When I heard a heavy footstep that was loud enough for two,
And a man of forty entered, exclaiming, “How d’ ye do?”

He was not a ghost, my visitor, but solid flesh and bone;
He wore a Palo Alto hat, his weight was twenty stone;
(It’s odd how hats expand their brims as riper years invade,
As if when life had reached its noon it wanted them for shade!)

I lost my focus,—­dropped my book,—­the bug, who was a flea,
At once exploded, and commenced experiments on me.
They have a certain heartiness that frequently appalls,—­
Those mediaeval gentlemen in semilunar smalls!

“My boy,” he said, (colloquial ways,—­the vast, broad-hatted man,)
“Come dine with us on Thursday next,—­you must, you know you can;
We’re going to have a roaring time, with lots of fun and noise,
Distinguished guests, et cetera, the judge, and all the boys.”

Not so,—­I said,—­my temporal bones are showing pretty clear.
It ’s time to stop,—­just look and see that hair above this ear;
My golden days are more than spent,—­and, what is very strange,
If these are real silver hairs, I’m getting lots of change.

Besides—­my prospects—­don’t you know that people won’t employ
A man that wrongs his manliness by laughing like a boy?
And suspect the azure blossom that unfolds upon a shoot,
As if wisdom’s old potato could not flourish at its root?

It’s a very fine reflection, when you ’re etching out a smile
On a copperplate of faces that would stretch at least a mile,
That, what with sneers from enemies and cheapening shrugs of friends,
It will cost you all the earnings that a month of labor lends!

It’s a vastly pleasing prospect, when you’re screwing out a laugh,
That your very next year’s income is diminished by a half,
And a little boy trips barefoot that Pegasus may go,
And the baby’s milk is watered that your Helicon may flow!

No;—­the joke has been a good one,—­but I’m getting fond of quiet,
And I don’t like deviations from my customary diet;
So I think I will not go with you to hear the toasts and speeches,
But stick to old Montgomery Place, and have some pig and peaches.

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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Added by Poetry Lover
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