21.06.2007, 21:23
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
AND can it be on the relentless blast
The Last Leaf has blown by—the tree is bare?
Strange was the chill that shivered on the air,
As if an unclothed soul were hurrying past,
In search of some new region strange and vast—
Some Country unexplored, where dead men fare,
Assuaged of Life, and all Life's carking care,
To the Great Rapture, waiting them at last.
He may be glad for whom the Heavens ope,
And the New Day shines royally and clear—
But we, who mourn him and shall mourn him long,
For what meet consolation shall we hope—
Or whither shall our sorrow turn for cheer,
Bereft of our dear Singer, and his song?
OCTOBER, 1894.
AND can it be on the relentless blast
The Last Leaf has blown by—the tree is bare?
Strange was the chill that shivered on the air,
As if an unclothed soul were hurrying past,
In search of some new region strange and vast—
Some Country unexplored, where dead men fare,
Assuaged of Life, and all Life's carking care,
To the Great Rapture, waiting them at last.
He may be glad for whom the Heavens ope,
And the New Day shines royally and clear—
But we, who mourn him and shall mourn him long,
For what meet consolation shall we hope—
Or whither shall our sorrow turn for cheer,
Bereft of our dear Singer, and his song?
OCTOBER, 1894.