Oliver Wendell Holmes: Всі вірші поета

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Under The Violets

HER hands are cold; her face is white;

No more her pulses come and go;

Her eyes are shut to life and light;—

Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,

And lay her where the violets blow.

But not beneath a graven stone,

To plead for tears with alien eyes;

A slender cross of wood alone

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

God Save The Flag

Washed in the blood of the brave and the blooming,

Snatched from the altars of insolent foes,

Burning with star-fires, but never consuming,

Flash its broad ribbons of lily and rose.

Vainly the prophets of Baal would rend it,

Vainly his worshippers pray for its fall;

Thousands have died for it, millions defend it,

Emblem of justice and mercy to all;

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Two Streams

Behold the rocky wall

That down its sloping sides

Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall,

In rushing river-tides!

Yon stream, whose sources run

Turned by a pebble's edge,

Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun

Through the cleft mountain-ledge.

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

Old Ironsides

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar; —

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

Grandmother's Story Of Bunker Hill Battle (as she saw it from the Belfry)

'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers

All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls";

When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story,

To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.

I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle;

Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still;

But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me,

When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

Departed Days

Yes, dear departed, cherished days,

Could Memory's hand restore

Your morning light, your evening rays,

From Time's gray urn once more,

Then might this restless heart be still,

This straining eye might close,

And Hope her fainting pinions fold,

While the fair phantoms rose.

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

Rip Van Winkle Canto I

OLD Rip Van Winkle had a grandson, Rip,

Of the paternal block a genuine chip,â€”Â

A lazy, sleepy, curious kind of chap;

He, like his grandsire, took a mighty nap,

Whereof the story I propose to tell

In two brief cantos, if you listen well.

The times were hard when Rip to manhood grew;

They always will be when thereâ€™s work to do.

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Chambered Nautilus

This is the ship of pearl,which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadowed main,—

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings

In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Last Leaf

I saw him once before,

As he passed by the door,

And again

The pavement stones resound,

As he totters o'er the ground

With his cane.

They say that in his prime,

Ere the pruning-knife of Time

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

Agnes

PART FIRST

THE KNIGHT

The tale I tell is gospel true,

As all the bookmen know,

And pilgrims who have strayed to view

The wrecks still left to show.

The old, old story,â€”Âfair, and young,

And fond,â€”Âand not too wise,â€”Â

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

A Familiar Letter

YES, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying;

Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold?

I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying,

If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold.

Here's a book full of words; one can choose as he fancies,

As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool;

Just think! all the poems and plays and romances

Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool!

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

Unsatisfied

"ONLY a housemaid!" She looked from the kitchen,--

Neat was the kitchen and tidy was she;

There at her window a sempstress sat stitching;

"Were I a sempstress, how happy I'd be!"

"Only a Queen!" She looked over the waters,--

Fair was her kingdom and mighty was she;

There sat an Empress, with Queens for her daughters;

"Were I an Empress, how happy I'd be!"

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Oliver Wendell Holmes