And wild winds bound within their cell, Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary, All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The poplar made, did all confound 1830. 60 84 Tennyson. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, 6 12 18 1840. And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 24 30 36 42 THE LAST LEAF I SAW him once before, The pavement stones resound, They say that in his prime, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round But now he walks the streets, Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone." 12 18 1836. And the names he loved to hear 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, I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, Where I cling. Oliver Wendell Holmes. 24 30 36 |