Unsatisfied
'ONLY a housemaid!' She looked from the kitchen,--
Neat was the kitchen and tidy was she;
There at her window a sempstress sat stitching;
'Were I a sempstress, how happy I'd be!'
'Only a Queen!' She looked over the waters,--
Fair was her kingdom and mighty was she;
There sat an Empress, with Queens for her daughters;
'Were I an Empress, how happy I'd be!'
Still the old frailty they all of them trip in!
Eve in her daughters is ever the same;
Give her all Eden, she sighs for a pippin;
Give her an Empire, she pines for a name!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Cacoethes Scribendi
If all the trees in all the woods were men;
And each and every blade of grass a pen;
If every leaf on every shrub and tree
Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea
Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes,
And for ten thousand ages, day and night,
The human race should write, and write, and write,
Till all the pens and paper were used up,
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,
Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink
Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Fantasia
THE YOUNG GIRL'S POEM
KISS mine eyelids, beauteous Morn,
Blushing into life new-born!
Lend me violets for my hair,
And thy russet robe to wear,
And thy ring of rosiest hue
Set in drops of diamond dew!
Kiss my cheek, thou noontide ray,
From my Love so far away
Let thy splendor streaming down
Turn its pallid lilies brown,
Till its darkening shades reveal
Where his passion pressed its seal!
Kiss my lips, thou Lord of light,
Kiss my lips a soft good-night!
Westward sinks thy golden car;
Leave me but the evening star,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Hymn Of Trust
O Love Divine, that stooped to share
Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear,
On Thee we cast each earth-born care,
We smile at pain while Thou art near!
Though long the weary way we tread,
And sorrow crown each lingering year,
No path we shun, no darkness dread,
Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near!
When drooping pleasure turns to grief,
And trembling faith is changed to fear,
The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf,
Shall softly tell us, Thou art near!
On Thee we fling our burdening woe,
O Love Divine, forever dear,
Content to suffer while we know,
Living and dying, Thou art near!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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A Toast To Wilkie Collins
FEBRUARY 16, 1874
THE painter's and the poet's fame
Shed their twinned lustre round his name,
To gild our story-teller's art,
Where each in turn must play his part.
What scenes from Wilkie's pencil sprung,
The minstrel saw but left unsung!
What shapes the pen of Collins drew,
No painter clad in living hue!
But on our artist's shadowy screen
A stranger miracle is seen
Than priest unveils or pilgrim seeks,--
The poem breathes, the picture speaks!
And so his double name comes true,
They christened better than they knew,
And Art proclaims him twice her son,--
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Departed Days
Yes, dear departed, cherished days,
Could Memory’s hand restore
Your morning light, your evening rays,
From Time’s gray urn once more,
Then might this restless heart be still,
This straining eye might close,
And Hope her fainting pinions fold,
While the fair phantoms rose.
But, like a child in ocean’s arms,
We strive against the stream,
Each moment farther from the shore
Where life’s young fountains gleam;
Each moment fainter wave the fields,
And wider rolls the sea;
The mist grows dark,—Âthe sun goes down,—Â
Day breaks,—Âand where are we?
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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To George Peabody
DANVERS, 1866
BANKRUPT! our pockets inside out!
Empty of words to speak his praises!
Worcester and Webster up the spout!
Dead broke of laudatory phrases!
Yet why with flowery speeches tease,
With vain superlatives distress him?
Has language better words than these?
THE FRIEND OF ALL HIS RACE, GOD BLESS HIM!
A simple prayer--but words more sweet
By human lips were never uttered,
Since Adam left the country seat
Where angel wings around him fluttered.
The old look on with tear-dimmed eyes,
The children cluster to caress him,
And every voice unbidden cries,
THE FRIEND OF ALL HIS RACE, GOD BLESS HIM!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Joseph Warren, M. D.
TRAINED in the holy art whose lifted shield
Wards off the darts a never-slumbering foe,
By hearth and wayside lurking, waits to throw,
Oppression taught his helpful arm to wield
The slayer's weapon: on the murderous field
The fiery bolt he challenged laid him low,
Seeking its noblest victim. Even so
The charter of a nation must be sealed!
The healer's brow the hero's honors crowned,
From lowliest duty called to loftiest deed.
Living, the oak-leaf wreath his temples bound;
Dying, the conqueror's laurel was his meed,
Last on the broken ramparts' turf to bleed
Where Freedom's victory in defeat was found.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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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!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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To The Poets Who Only Read And Listen
WHEN evening's shadowy fingers fold
The flowers of every hue,
Some shy, half-opened bud will hold
Its drop of morning's dew.
Sweeter with every sunlit hour
The trembling sphere has grown,
Till all the fragrance of the flower
Becomes at last its own.
We that have sung perchance may find
Our little meed of praise,
And round our pallid temples bind
The wreath of fading bays.
Ah, Poet, who hast never spent
Thy breath in idle strains,
For thee the dewdrop morning lent
Still in thy heart remains;
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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