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The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 07: Songs of Many Seasons

62 pages
The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 7, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it,give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 7 Songs Of Many Seasons (1862-1874)Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.Release Date: September 30, 2004 [EBook #7394]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF HOLMES, VOL. 7 ***Produced by David WidgerTHE POETICAL WORKSOFOLIVER WENDELL HOLMES[Volume 2 of the 1893 three volume set]SONGS OF MANY SEASONS1862-1874OPENING THE WINDOW PROGRAMMEIN THE QUIET DAYS AN OLD-YEAR SONG DOROTHY Q: A FAMILY PORTRAIT THE ORGAN-BLOWER AT THE PANTOMIME AFTER THE FIRE A BALLAD OFTHE BOSTON TEA-PARTY NEARING THE SNOW-LINEIN WAR TIME TO CANAAN: A PURITAN WAR-SONG "THUS SAITH THE LORD, I OFFER THEE THREE THINGS" NEVER OR NOW ONE COUNTRY GOD SAVETHE FLAG! HYMN AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION HYMN FOR THE FAIR AT CHICAGO UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGEFREEDOM, OUR QUEEN ARMY HYMN PARTING HYMN THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY THE SWEET LITTLE MAN UNION AND LIBERTY SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL AMERICA TO RUSSIA WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS AT THE BANQUET TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS AT THE BANQUET TO ...
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 7, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
Title: The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 7 Songs Of Many Seasons (1862-1874) Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. Release Date: September 30, 2004 [EBook #7394] Language: English
Produced by David Widger
[Volume 2 of the 1893 three volume set]
READER—gentle—if so be Such still live, and live for me, Will it please you to be told What my tenscore pages hold?
Here are verses that in spite Of myself I needs must write, Like the wine that oozes first When the unsqueezed grapes have burst.
Here are angry lines, "too hard!" Says the soldier, battle-scarred. Could I smile his scars away I would blot the bitter lay,
Written with a knitted brow, Read with placid wonder now. Throbbed such passion in my heart? Did his wounds once really smart?
Here are varied strains that sing All the changes life can bring, Songs when joyous friends have met, Songs the mourner's tears have wet.
See the banquet's dead bouquet, Fair and fragrant in its day; Do they read the selfsame lines,— He that fasts and he that dines?
Year by year, like milestones placed, Mark the record Friendship traced. Prisoned in the walls of time Life has notched itself in rhyme.
As its seasons slid along, Every year a notch of song, From the June of long ago, When the rose was full in blow,
Till the scarlet sage has come And the cold chrysanthemum. Read, but not to praise or blame; Are not all our hearts the same?
For the rest, they take their chance,— Some may pay a passing glance; Others,-well, they served a turn,— Wherefore written, would you learn?
Not for glory, not for pelf, Not, be sure, to please myself, Not for any meaner ends,— Always "by request of friends."
Here's the cousin of a king,— Would I do the civil thing? Here 's the first-born of a queen; Here 's a slant-eyed Mandarin.
naW?uodlo ffJ paI polishWould ra oF gia dn oigla! ,etiehSP roalerFh?arigork ha St ih safI g erte,Prince mous mans unseenden singewirgnn iWhta snedercr s b aidroylohiam Snee emound p foe-to tre
As through the forest, disarrayed By chill November, late I strayed, A lonely minstrel of the wood Was singing to the solitude I loved thy music, thus I said, When o'er thy perch the leaves were spread Sweet was thy song, but sweeter now Thy carol on the leafless bough. Sing, little bird! thy note shall cheer The sadness of the dying year.
Turn my pages,—never mind If you like not all you find; Think not all the grains are gold Sacramento's sand-banks hold.
Every field its leanest sheaf, Every book its dullest leaf, Every leaf its weakest line,— Shall it not be so with mine?
Every kernel has its shell, Every chime its harshest bell, Every face its weariest look, Every shelf its emptiest book,
Would I just this once comply?— So they teased and teased till I (Be the truth at once confessed) Wavered—yielded—did my best.
When violets pranked the turf with blue And morning filled their cups with dew, Thy slender voice with rippling trill The budding April bowers would fill, Nor passed its joyous tones away When April rounded into May: Thy life shall hail no second dawn,— Sing, little bird! the spring is gone.
gneu aotandloo whe tesotyreve dnA,gnur dAnd I remem rs muedalornu whey,Ashindn beewrebmeyad-a-llfuy Th!wnlo-bll
October 7, 1874.
Best for worst shall make amends, Find us, keep us, leave us friends Till, perchance, we meet again. Benedicite.—Amen!
ht !edahs eht pedew Hoilttelb !riSgn , how faie grovesb er.eraoo w adsd!irhe t
Fast, fast the lengthening shadows creep, The songless fowls are half asleep, The air grows chill, the setting sun May leave thee ere thy song is done, The pulse that warms thy breast grow cold, Thy secret die with thee, untold The lingering sunset still is bright,— Sing, little bird! 't will soon be night.
The snow has capped yon distant hill, At morn the running brook was still, From driven herds the clouds that rise Are like the smoke of sacrifice; Erelong the frozen sod shall mock The ploughshare, changed to stubborn rock, The brawling streams shall soon be dumb,— Sing, little bird! the frosts have come.
The summer's throbbing chant is done And mute the choral antiphon; The birds have left the shivering pines To flit among the trellised vines, Or fan the air with scented plumes Amid the love-sick orange-blooms, And thou art here alone,—alone,— Sing, little bird! the rest have flown.
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