The Crooked Footpath

AH, here it is! the sliding rail

That marks the old remembered spot --

The gap that struck our schoolboy trail --

The crooked path across the lot.

It left the road by school and church,

A penciled shadow, nothing more,

That parted from the silver birch

And ended at the farmhouse door.

No line or compass traced its plan,

With frequent bends to left or right.

In aimless, wayward curves it ran,

But always kept the door in sight.

The gabled porch, with woodbine green --

The broken millstone at the mill --

Though many a rood might stretch between,

The truant child could see them still.

No rocks across the pathway lie,

No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown,

And yet it winds, we know not why,

And turns as if for tree or stone.

Perhaps some lover trod the way

With shaking knees and leaping heart --

And so it often runs astray

With sinuous sweep or sudden start.

Or one, perchance, with clouded brain,

From some unholy banquet reeled --

And since our devious steps maintain

His track across the trodden field.

Nay, deem not thus -- no earth-born will

Could ever trace a faultless line;

Our truest steps are human still --

To walk unswerving were divine!

Truants from love, we dream of wrath --

Oh, rather let us trust the more!

Through all the wanderings of the path,

We still can see our Father's door!

Oliver Wendell Holmes

To an Insect

I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice,

Wherever thou art hid,

Thou testy like dogmatist,

Thou pretty Katydid!

Thou mindst me of gentlefolks, --

Old gentlefolks are they, --

Thou say'st an undisputed thing

In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid!

I know it by the trill

That quivers through thy piercing notes,

So petulant and shrill;

I think there is a knot of you

Beneath the hollow tree, --

A knot of spinster Katydids, --

Do Katydids drink tea?

O, tell me where did Katy live,

And what did Katy do?

And was she fair and young,

And yet so wicked too?

Did Katy love a naughty man,

Or kiss more cheeks than one?

I warrant Katy did no more

Than many a Kate has done.

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!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,

Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,

And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,

Or know the conquered knee;--

The harpies of the shore shall pluck

The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shattered hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;

Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,

The lightning and the gale!

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

   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 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."

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has pressed

   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

   Is 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.

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;

Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed,--

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year's dwelling for the new,

Stole with soft steps its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings --

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-valulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

Oliver Wendell Holmes

L'Inconnue

IS thy name Mary, maiden fair?

Such should, methinks, its music be;

The sweetest name that mortals bear

Were best befitting thee;

And she to whom it once was given

Was half of earth and half of heaven.

I hear thy voice, I see thy smile,

I look upon thy folded hair;

Ah! while we dream not they beguile,

Our hearts are in the snare;

And she who chains a wild bird's wing

Must start not if her captive sing.

So, lady, take the leaf that falls,

To all but thee unseen, unknown;

When evening shades thy silent walls,

Then read it all alone;

In stillness read, in darkness seal,

Forget, despise, but not reveal!

Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Deacon's Masterpiece

HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,

That was built in such a logical way

It ran a hundred years to a day,

And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay,

And I'll tell you what happened without delay,

Scaring the parson into fits,

Frightening people out of their wits,--

Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,

Georgius Secundus was then alive,--

Snuffy old drone from the German hive.

That was the year when Lisbon-town

Saw the earth open and gulp her down,

And Braddock's army was done so brown,

Left without a scalp to its crown.

It was on the terrible Earthquake-day

That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,

There is always somewhere a weaker spot,--

In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,

In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still,

Find it somewhere you must and will,--

Above or below, or within or without,--

And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,

A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do),

With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,"

He would build one shay to beat the taown

'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';

It should be so built that it couldn' break daown:

--"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain

Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;

'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,

                      Is only jest

T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk

Where he could find the strongest oak,

That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,--

That was for spokes and floor and sills;

He sent for lancewood to make the thills;

The crossbars were ash, from the strightest trees,

The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,

But lasts like iron for things like these;

The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"--

Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em,

Never an axe had seen their chips,

And the wedges flew from between their lips,

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery tips;

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,

Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,

Steel of the finest, bright and blue;

Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;

Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide

Found in the pit when the tanner died.

That was the way he "put her through."--

"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

DO! I tell you, I rather guess

She was a wonder, and nothing less!

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,

Deacon and Deaconess dropped away,

Children and grandchildren--where were they?

But there stood the stout old-one-hoss shay

As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; -- it came and found

The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.

Eighteen hundred increased by ten;--

"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.

Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--

Running as usual; much the same.

Thirty and forty at last arrive,

And then came fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE,

Little of all we value here

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year

Without both feeling and looking queer.

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,

So far as I know, but a tree and truth.

(This as a moral that runs at large;

Take it,--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER--the-Earthquake-day,--

There are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay,

A general flavor of mild decay,

But nothing local, as one may say.

There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art

Had made it so like in every part

That there wasn't a chance for one to start.

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,

And the floor was just as strong as the sills,

And the panels just as strong as the floor,

And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,

And spring and axle and hub encore,

And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt

In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, 'Fifty-five!

This morning the parson takes a drive.

Now, small boys, get out of the way!

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,

Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.

"Huddup!" said the parson. Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday text,--

Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed

At what the--Moses--was coming next.

All at once the horse stood still,

Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.

--First a shiver, and then a thrill,

Then something decidedly like a spill,--

And the parson was sitting up on a rock,

At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,--

Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!

--What do you think the parson found,

When he got up and stared around?

The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,

As if it had been to the mill and ground!

You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,

How it went to pieces all at once,--

All at once, and nothing first,--

Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay,

Logic is logic. That's all I say.

Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Height of the Ridiculous

I WROTE some lines once on a time

In wondrous merry mood,

And thought, as usual, men would say

They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,

I laughed as I would die;

Albeit, in the general way,

A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;

How kind it was of him

To mind a slender man like me,

He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed,

And, in my humorous way,

I added (as a trifling jest),

"There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,

And saw him peep within;

At the first line he read, his face

Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad,

And shot from ear to ear;

He read the third; a chuckling noise

I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;

The fifth; his waist band split;

The sixth; He burst five buttons off,

And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye

I watched that wretched man,

And since, I never dare to write

As funny as I can.

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;

Justice that reddens the sky with her terrors,

Mercy that comes with her white-handed train,

Soothing all passions, redeeming all errors,

Sheathing the sabre and breaking the chain.

Borne on the deluge of all usurpations,

Drifted our Ark o'er the desolate seas,

Bearing the rainbow of hope to the nations,

Torn from the storm-cloud and flung to the breeze!

God bless the Flag and its loyal defenders,

While its broad folds o'er the battle-field wave,

Till the dim star-wreath rekindle its splendors,

Washed from its stains in the blood of the brave!

Oliver Wendell Holmes