Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, the — Volume 01: Earlier Poems (1830-1836) by Oliver Wendell Holmes
page 41 of 68 (60%)
page 41 of 68 (60%)
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THE LAST READER I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree And read my own sweet songs; Though naught they may to others be, Each humble line prolongs A tone that might have passed away But for that scarce remembered lay. I keep them like a lock or leaf That some dear girl has given; Frail record of an hour, as brief As sunset clouds in heaven, But spreading purple twilight still High over memory's shadowed hill. They lie upon my pathway bleak, Those flowers that once ran wild, As on a father's careworn cheek The ringlets of his child; The golden mingling with the gray, And stealing half its snows away. What care I though the dust is spread Around these yellow leaves, Or o'er them his sarcastic thread Oblivion's insect weaves |
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