{"id":306,"date":"2010-03-25T20:15:25","date_gmt":"2010-03-25T20:15:25","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/?p=306"},"modified":"2010-03-25T20:15:38","modified_gmt":"2010-03-25T20:15:38","slug":"the-last-leaf-by-oliver-wendell-holmes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/the-last-leaf-by-oliver-wendell-holmes\/","title":{"rendered":"The Last Leaf by Oliver Wendell Holmes"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)<\/p>\n

\n

The Last Leaf by Oliver Wendell Holmes<\/p>\n

I saw him once before,
\nAs he passed by the door,
\nAnd again
\nThe pavement stones resound,
\nAs he totters o’er the ground
\nWith his cane.<\/p>\n

They say that in his prime,
\nEre the pruning-knife of Time
\nCut him down,
\nNot a better man was found
\nBy the Crier on his round
\nThrough the town.<\/p>\n

But now he walks the streets,
\nAnd looks at all he meets
\nSad and wan,
\nAnd he shakes his feeble head,
\nThat it seems as if he said,
\n“They are gone.”<\/p>\n

The mossy marbles rest
\nOn the lips that he has prest
\nIn their bloom,
\nAnd the names he loved to hear
\nHave been carved for many a year
\nOn the tomb.<\/p>\n

My grandmamma has said
\nPoor old lady, she is dead
\nLong ago
\nThat he had a Roman nose,
\nAnd his cheek was like a rose
\nIn the snow;<\/p>\n

But now his nose is thin,
\nAnd it rests upon his chin
\nLike a staff,
\nAnd a crook is in his back,
\nAnd a melancholy crack
\nIn his laugh.<\/p>\n

I know it is a sin
\nFor me to sit and grin
\nAt him here;
\nBut the old three-cornered hat,
\nAnd the breeches, and all that,
\nAre so queer!<\/p>\n

And if I should live to be
\nThe last leaf upon the tree
\nIn the spring,
\nLet them smile, as I do now,
\nAt the old forsaken bough
\nWhere I cling.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894) The Last Leaf by 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…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-306","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-1800s"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t