The Last Leaf
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#70 The Last Leaf
The Last Leaf
Oliver Wendell Holmes
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
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest
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.
My grandmamma has said
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow;
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
The Last Leaf
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Now nature is not at variance with art, nor art with nature; they being
both the servants of his providence. Art is the perfection of nature. Were
the world now as it was the sixth day, there were yet a chaos. Nature hath
made one world, and art another. In brief, all things are artificial; for
nature is the art of God.
The human mind is not capable of grasping the Universe. We are like a
little child entereing a huge library. The walls are covered to the ceilings
with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have
written these books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the
languages in which they are written. But the child notes a definite plan in
the arrangement of books--a mysterious order which it does not comprehend,
but only dimly suspects. Albert Einstein
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only
the essentail facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to
teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. Henry
David Thoreau
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This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is
never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor ever rising.
Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on seas and
continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.
John Muir
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