THE LAST LEAF. BY O. W. 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. THE BIRTH OF A POET. BY J. NEAL. On a blue summer night, While the stars were asleep, Like gems of the deep, In their own drowsy light; While the newly mown hay On the green earth lay, And all that came near it went scented away; From a lone woody place, There looked out a face, With large blue eyes, Like the wet warm skies, Brim full of water and light; A profusion of hair Flashing out on the air, And a forehead alarmingly bright: "Twas the head of a poet! He grew As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness grow, Till his heart had blown As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness blow; 138 THE BIRTH OF A POET. Till every thought wore a changeable strain Full of wo and surprise, Like the eyes of them that can see the dead. Looking about, For a moment or two he stood On the shore of the mighty wood; Then ventured out, With a bounding step and a joyful shout, The brave sky bending o'er him! The broad sea all before him! |