Out through the fields and the woods And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home, And lo, it is ended. The leaves are all dead on the ground, Save those that the oak is keeping To ravel them one by one And let them go scraping and creeping Out over the crusted snow, When others are sleeping. And the dead leaves lie huddled and still, No longer blown hither and thither; The last lone aster is gone; The flowers of the witch hazel wither; The heart is still aching to seek, But the feet question ‘Whither?’ Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?
"The Last Leaf" (BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, SR).
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 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 prest 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 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.
"A late Walk" (by Robert Frost).
When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of withered weeds Is sadder than any words A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rattling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.
"A BALLADE OF OLD LOVES" (by CAROLYN WELLS).
Who is it stands on the polished stair, A merry, laughing, winsome maid, From the Christmas rose in her golden hair To the high-heeled slippers of spangled suède A glance, half daring and half afraid, Gleams from her roguish eyes downcast; Already the vision begins to fade— ’Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past. Who is it sits in that high-backed chair, Quaintly in ruff and patch arrayed, With a mockery gay of a stately air As she rustles the folds of her old brocade,— Merriest heart at the masquerade? Ah, but the picture is passing fast Back to the darkness from which it strayed— ’Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past. Who is it whirls in a ball-room’s glare, Her soft white hand on my shoulder laid, Like a radiant lily, tall and fair, While the violins in the corner played The wailing strains of the Serenade? Oh, lovely vision, too sweet to last— E’en now my fancy it will evade— ’Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past, L’ENVOI Rosamond! look not so dismayed, All of my heart, dear love, thou hast. Jealous, beloved? Of a shade?— ’Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.