The Ancient Printerman

O Printerman of sallow face,      And look of absent guile,      Is it the 'copy' on your 'case'      That causes you to smile?      Or is it some old treasure scrap      You call from Memory's file?      "I fain would guess its mystery -      For often I can trace      A fellow dreamer's history      Whene'er it haunts the face;      Your fancy's running riot      In a retrospective race!      "Ah, Printerman, you're straying      Afar from 'stick' and type -      Your heart has 'gone a-maying,'      And you taste old kisses, ripe      Again on lips that pucker      At your old asthmatic pipe!      "You are dreaming of old pleasures      That have faded from your view;      And the music-burdened measures      Of the laughs you listen to      Are now but angel-echoes -      O, have I spoken true?"      The ancient Printer hinted      With a motion full of grace      To where the words were printed      On a card above his "case," -      "'I am deaf and dumb!" I left him      With a smile upon his face.