Oliver Wendell Holmes

Day hath put on his jacket, and
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass,
That is like padding to earth’s meagre ribs,

Washed in the blood of the brave and the blooming,
Snatched from the altars of insolent foes,
Burning with star-fires, but never consuming,
Flash its broad ribbons of lily and rose

"Man wants but little here below
" Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do,) That I may call my own; And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun
Pl...

ER's mother: her age,
I guess, Thirteen summers, or something less; Girlish bust, but womanly air; Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair; Lips that lover has never kissed; Taper fingers and slender wrist; Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade...

'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls";
When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story,
To you the words are ashes, but ...

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 a...

I
ER of Erin, whose magic has bound us, Thy wand for one moment we fondly would claim, Entranced while it summons the phantoms around us That blush into life at the sound of thy name
The tell-tales of memory wake from their slumbers,— I ...

ME, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by, The shining days when life was new, And all was bright with morning dew, The lusty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe
Your name may flaunt a titled trail Pr...

Oh, there are times When all this fret and tumult that we hear Do seem more stale than to the sexton's ear His own dull chimes
Ding dong
ding dong
The world is in a simmer like a sea Over a pent volcano, — woe is me All the day long...

How the mountains talked together,
Looking down upon the weather,
When they heard our friend had planned
Little trip among the

HE has gone,— she has left us in passion and pride,—          Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side
She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,          And turned on her brother the face of a foe
Oh,
Caroline,

Yes, dear departed, cherished days,
Could Memory's hand
Your morning light, your evening rays,
From Time's gray urn once more,