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    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 10: Before the Curfew
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 10: Before the Curfew
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 10: Before the Curfew
    Ebook105 pages57 minutes

    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 10: Before the Curfew

    By Oliver Wendell Holmes

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 10: Before the Curfew
    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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      The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Volume 10 - Oliver Wendell Holmes

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Vol. 10, 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. 10 Before The Curfew

      Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

      Release Date: September 30, 2004 [EBook #7397]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETRY OF HOLMES, VOL. 10 ***

      Produced by David Widger

      THE POETICAL WORKS

      OF

      OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

      [Volume 3 of the 1893 three volume set]

      BEFORE THE CURFEW

      AT MY FIRESIDE AT THE SATURDAY CLUB OUR DEAD SINGER. H. W. L. TWO POEMS TO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. I. AT THE SUMMIT II. THE WORLD'S HOMAGE A WELCOME TO DR. BENJAMIN APTHORP GOULD TO FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY PRELUDE TO A VOLUME PRINTED IN RAISED LETTERS FOR THE BLIND BOSTON TO FLORENCE AT THE UNITARIAN FESTIVAL, MARCH 8, 1882 POEM FOR THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDING OF HARVARD COLLEGE POST-PRANDIAL: PHI BETA KAPPA, 1881 THE FLANEUR: DURING THE TRANSIT OF VENUS, 1882 AVE KING'S CHAPEL READ AT THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY HYMN FOR THE SAME OCCASION HYMN.—THE WORD OF PROMISE HYMN READ AT THE DEDICATION OF THE OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES HOSPITAL AT HUDSON, WISCONSIN, JUNE 7, 1887 ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD THE GOLDEN FLOWER HAIL, COLUMBIA! POEM FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE FOUNTAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON, PRESENTED BY GEORGE CHILDS, OF PHILADELPHIA TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ AND LISTEN FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE NEW CITY LIBRARY FOR THE WINDOW IN ST. MARGARET'S JAMES RUSSELL LO WELL: 1819-1891

      AT MY FIRESIDE

      ALONE, beneath the darkened sky,

      With saddened heart and unstrung lyre,

      I heap the spoils of years gone by,

      And leave them with a long-drawn sigh,

      Like drift-wood brands that glimmering lie,

      Before the ashes hide the fire.

      Let not these slow declining days

      The rosy light of dawn outlast;

      Still round my lonely hearth it plays,

      And gilds the east with borrowed rays,

      While memory's mirrored sunset blaze

      Flames on the windows of the past.

      March 1, 1888.

      AT THE SATURDAY CLUB

      THIS is our place of meeting; opposite

      That towered and pillared building: look at it;

      King's Chapel in the Second George's day,

      Rebellion stole its regal name away,—

      Stone Chapel sounded better; but at last

      The poisoned name of our provincial past

      Had lost its ancient venom; then once more

      Stone Chapel was King's Chapel as before.

      (So let rechristened North Street, when it can,

      Bring back the days of Marlborough and Queen Anne!)

      Next the old church your wandering eye will meet—

      A granite pile that stares upon the street—

      Our civic temple; slanderous tongues have said

      Its shape was modelled from St. Botolph's head,

      Lofty, but narrow; jealous passers-by

      Say Boston always held her head too high.

      Turn half-way round, and let your look survey

      The white facade that gleams across the way,—

      The many-windowed building, tall and wide,

      The palace-inn that shows its northern side

      In grateful shadow when the sunbeams beat

      The granite wall in summer's scorching heat.

      This is the place; whether its name you spell

      Tavern, or caravansera, or hotel.

      Would I could steal its echoes! you should find

      Such store of vanished pleasures brought to mind

      Such feasts! the laughs of many a jocund hour

      That shook the mortar from King George's tower;

      Such guests! What famous names its record boasts,

      Whose owners wander in the mob of ghosts!

      Such stories! Every beam and plank is filled

      With juicy wit the joyous talkers spilled,

      Ready to ooze, as once the mountain pine

      The floors are laid with oozed its turpentine!

      A month had flitted since The Club had met;

      The day came round; I found the table set,

      The waiters lounging round the marble stairs,

      Empty as yet the double row of chairs.

      I was a full half hour before the rest,

      Alone, the banquet-chamber's single guest.

      So from the table's side a chair I took,

      And having neither company nor book

      To keep me waking, by degrees there crept

      A torpor over me,—in short, I slept.

      Loosed from its chain, along the wreck-strown track

      Of the dead years my soul goes travelling back;

      My ghosts take on their robes of flesh; it seems

      Dreaming is life; nay, life less life than dreams,

      So real are the shapes that meet my eyes.

      They bring no sense of wonder, no surprise,

      No hint

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