MikeLigalig.com

       The Last Leaf
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 he 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 rest 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 hin here;
But the old tree-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.  
  
                                                 Oliver Wendell Holmes
                                                      [1809-1894]

  
  

Linkback: https://tubagbohol.mikeligalig.com/index.php?topic=33478.0

Song  

   
GO and catch a falling star,   
  Get with child a mandrake root,   
Tell me where all past years are,   
  Or who cleft the Devil's foot;   
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,         
Or to keep off envy's stinging,   
        And find   
        What wind   
Serves to advance an honest mind.   
 
If thou be'st born to strange sights,   
  Things invisible to see,   
Ride ten thousand days and nights   
  Till Age snow white hairs on thee;   
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me   
All strange wonders that befell thee,   
        And swear   
        No where   
Lives a woman true and fair.   
 
If thou find'st one, let me know;   
  Such a pilgrimage were sweet.   
Yet do not; I would not go,   
  Though at next door we might meet.   
Though she were true when you met her,   
And last till you write your letter,   
        Yet she   
        Will be   
False, ere I come, to two or three.   

 
John Donne (1573–1631)

Linkback: https://tubagbohol.mikeligalig.com/index.php?topic=33478.0