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    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 09 The Iron Gate and Other Poems
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 09 The Iron Gate and Other Poems
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 09 The Iron Gate and Other Poems
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    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 09 The Iron Gate and Other Poems

    By Oliver Wendell Holmes

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 09 The Iron Gate and Other Poems
    Author

    Oliver Wendell Holmes

    Oliver Wendell Holmes was an American physician, poet, and polymath based in Boston. A member of the Fireside Poets, he was acclaimed by his peers as one of the best writers of the day. His most famous prose works are the “Breakfast Table” series, which began with The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.

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      Book preview

      The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 09 The Iron Gate and Other Poems - Oliver Wendell Holmes

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 9, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 9 The Iron Gate And Other Poems (1877-1881)

      Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

      Release Date: September 30, 2004 [EBook #7396]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF HOLMES, VOL. 9 ***

      Produced by David Widger

      THE POETICAL WORKS

      OF

      OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

      [Volume 3 of the 1893 three volume set]

      THE IRON GATE

      AND OTHER POEMS

      1877-1881

      THE IRON GATE VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM MY AVIARY ON THE THRESHOLD TO GEORGE PEABODY AT THE PAPYRUS CLUB FOR WHITTIER'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY TWO SONNETS: HARVARD THE COMING ERA IN RESPONSE FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE WELCOME TO THE CHICAGO COMMERCIAL CLUB AMERICAN ACADEMY CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION THE SCHOOL-BOY THE SILENT MELODY OUR HOME—OUR COUNTRY POEM AT THE CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY DINNER OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY RHYMES OF A LIFE-TIME

      THE IRON GATE

      Read at the Breakfast given in honor of Dr. Holmes's Seventieth Birthday by the publishers of the Atlantic Monthly, Boston, December 3, 1879.

      WHERE is this patriarch you are kindly greeting?

      Not unfamiliar to my ear his name,

      Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting

      In days long vanished,—is he still the same,

      Or changed by years, forgotten and forgetting,

      Dull-eared, dim-sighted, slow of speech and thought,

      Still o'er the sad, degenerate present fretting,

      Where all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought?

      Old age, the graybeard! Well, indeed, I know him,—

      Shrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and ills the prey;

      In sermon, story, fable, picture, poem,

      Oft have I met him from my earliest day.

      In my old AEsop, toiling with his bundle,—

      His load of sticks,—politely asking Death,

      Who comes when called for,—would he lug or trundle

      His fagot for him?—he was scant of breath.

      And sad Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher,—

      Has he not stamped the image on my soul,

      In that last chapter, where the worn-out Teacher

      Sighs o'er the loosened cord, the broken bowl?

      Yes, long, indeed, I've known him at a distance,

      And now my lifted door-latch shows him here;

      I take his shrivelled hand without resistance,

      And find him smiling as his step draws near.

      What though of gilded baubles he bereaves us,

      Dear to the heart of youth, to manhood's prime;

      Think of the calm he brings, the wealth he leaves us,

      The hoarded spoils, the legacies of time!

      Altars once flaming, still with incense fragrant,

      Passion's uneasy nurslings rocked asleep,

      Hope's anchor faster, wild desire less vagrant,

      Life's flow less noisy, but the stream how deep!

      Still as the silver cord gets worn and slender,

      Its lightened task-work tugs with lessening strain,

      Hands get more helpful, voices, grown more tender,

      Soothe with their softened tones the slumberous brain.

      Youth longs and manhood strives, but age remembers,

      Sits by the raked-up ashes of the past,

      Spreads its thin hands above the whitening embers

      That warm its creeping life-blood till the last.

      Dear to its heart is every loving token

      That comes unbidden ere its pulse grows cold,

      Ere the last lingering ties of life are broken,

      Its labors ended and its story told.

      Ah, while around us rosy youth rejoices,

      For us the sorrow-laden breezes sigh,

      And through the chorus of its jocund voices

      Throbs the sharp note of misery's hopeless cry.

      As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying

      From some far orb I track our watery sphere,

      Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying,

      The silvered globule seems a glistening tear.

      But Nature lends her mirror of illusion

      To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed eyes,

      And misty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion

      The wintry landscape and the summer skies.

      So when the iron portal shuts behind us,

      And life forgets us in its noise and whirl,

      Visions that shunned the glaring noonday find us,

      And glimmering starlight shows the gates of pearl.

      I come not here your morning hour to sadden,

      A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,—

      I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden

      This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh.

      If word of mine another's gloom has brightened,

      Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message came;

      If hand of mine another's task has lightened,

      It felt

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