Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.
Oliver Wendell Holmes 18091894
Oliver Wendell Holmes92 The Last Leaf
I
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o’er the ground
With his cane.
Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town. And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, “They are gone.” On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago— That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer! The last leaf upon the tree In the spring,— Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.