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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=472563" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Iron Gate</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">WHERE is this patriarch you are kindly greeting?<br> Not unfamiliar to my ear his name,<br> Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting<br> In days long vanished,-- is he still the same,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Or changed by years, forgotten and forgetting,<br> Dull-eared, dim-sighted, slow of speech and thought,<br> Still o'er the sad, degenerate present fretting,<br> Where all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Old age, the graybeard! Well, indeed, I know him,--<br> Shrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and ills the prey;<br> In sermon, story, fable, picture, poem,<br> Oft have I met him from my earliest day:</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> In my old Aesop, toiling with his bundle,--<br> His load of sticks,-- politely asking Death,<br> Who comes when called for,-- would he lug or trundle<br> His fagot for him?-- he was scant of breath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And sad &quot;Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher,&quot;--<br> Has he not stamped tbe image on my soul,<br> In that last chapter, where the worn-out Teacher<br> Sighs o'er the loosened cord, the broken bowl?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Yes, long, indeed, I 've known him at a distance,<br> And now my lifted door-latch shows him here;<br> I take his shrivelled hand without resistance,<br> And find him smiling as his step draws near.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> What though of gilded baubles he bereaves us,<br> Dear to the heart of youth, to manhood's prime;<br> Think of the calm he brings, the wealth he leaves us,<br> The hoarded spoils, the legacies of time!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Altars once flaming, still with incense fragrant,<br> Passion's uneasy nurslings rocked asleep,<br> Hope's anchor faster, wild desire less vagrant,<br> Life's flow less noisy, but the stream how deep!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Still as the silver cord gets worn and slender,<br> Its lightened task-work tugs with lessening strain,<br> Hands get more helpful, voices, grown more tender,<br> Soothe with their softened tones the slumberous brain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Youth longs and manhood strives, but age remembers,<br> Sits by the raked-up ashes of the past, <br> Spreads its thin hands above the whitening embers<br> That warm its creeping life-blood till the last.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Dear to its heart is every loving token <br> That comes unbidden era its pulse grows cold,<br> Ere the last lingering ties of life are broken,<br> Its labors ended and its story told.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Ah, while around us rosy youth rejoices,<br> For us the sorrow-laden breezes sigh,<br> And through the chorus of its jocund voices<br> Throbs the sharp note of misery's hopeless cry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying<br> From some far orb I track our watery sphere,<br> Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying,<br> The silvered globule seems a glistening tear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But Nature lends her mirror of illusion<br> To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed eyes,<br> And misty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion<br> The wintry landscape and the summer skies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> So when the iron portal shuts behind us,<br> And life forgets us in its noise and whirl,<br> Visions that shunned the glaring noonday find us,<br> And glimmering starlight shows the gates of pearl.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I come not here your morning hour to sadden,<br> A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,--<br> I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden<br> This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> If word of mine another's gloom has brightened,<br> Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message came;<br> If hand of mine another's task has lightened,<br> It felt the guidance that it dares not claim.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers,<br> These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil's release;<br> These feebler pulses bid me leave to others<br> The tasks once welcome; evening asks for peace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Time claims his tribute; silence now golden;<br> Let me not vex the too long suffering lyre;<br> Though to your love untiring still beholden,<br> The curfew tells me-- cover up the fire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And now with grateful smile and accents cheerful,<br> And warmer heart than look or word can tell,<br> In simplest phrase-- these traitorous eyes are tearful--<br> Thanks, Brothers, Sisters,-- Children,-- and farewell!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Oliver+Wendell+Holmes">Oliver Wendell Holmes</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=472563" data-title="The Iron Gate de Oliver Wendell Holmes" data-description="WHERE is this patriarch you are kindly greeting?
 Not unfamiliar to my ear his name,
 Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting
 In days long vanished,-- is he still the same,

 Or changed by years, forgotten and forgetting,
 Dull-eared, dim-sighte..."></div>
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