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,
In the dropping of natural dew,
Unheeded-alone-

Till his heart had blown

As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness blow;

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THE BIRTH OF A POET.

Till every thought wore a changeable strain
Like flower-leaves wet with the sunset rain:
A proud and passionate boy was he,
Like all the children of Poesy;
With a haughty look and a haughty tread,
And something awful about his head;
With wonderful eyes

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!