Classic and Contemporary Poetry
H.C.M. H.S. J.K.W, by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: The dirge is played, the throbbing death-peal rung Last Line: Welcome, ye shadowy forms, we count you still our own! Subject(s): Classmates; Meriam, Horatio Cook; Sargent, Howard; Waite, Josiah Kendall; Schoolmates | ||||||||
THE dirge is played, the throbbing deathpeal rung, The sad-voiced requiem sung; On each white urn where memory dwells The wreath of rustling immortelles Our loving hands have hung, And balmiest leaves have strown and tenderest blossoms flung. The birds that filled the air with songs have flown, The wintry blasts have blown, And these for whom the voice of spring Bade the sweet choirs their carols sing Sleep in those chambers lone Where snows untrodden lie, unheard the nightwinds moan. We clasp them all in memory, as the vine Whose running stems untwine The marble shaft, and steal around The lowly stone, the nameless mound; With sorrowing hearts resign Our brothers true and tried, and close our broken line. How fast the lamps of life grow dim and die Beneath our sunset sky! Still fading, as along our track We cast our saddened glances back, And while we vainly sigh The shadowy day recedes, the starry night draws nigh. As when from pier to pier across the tide With even keel we glide, The lights we left along the shore Grow less and less, while more, yet more New vistas open wide Of fair illumined streets and casements golden-eyed. Each closing circle of our sunlit sphere Seems to bring heaven more near: Can we not dream that those we love Are listening in the world above And smiling as they hear The voices known so well of friends that still are dear? Does all that made us human fade away With this dissolving clay? Nay, rather deem the blessed isles Are bright and gay with joyous smiles, That angels have their play, And saints that tire of song may claim their holiday. All else of earth may perish; love alone Not heaven shall find outgrown! Are they not here, our spirit guests, With love still throbbing in their breasts? Once more let flowers be strown. Welcome, ye shadowy forms, we count you still our own! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CLASS by ALICIA SUSKIN OSTRIKER FOR A STUDENT SLEEPING IN A POETRY WORKSHOP by DAVID WAGONER BILL AND JOE by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE BOYS by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE OLD MAN DREAMS by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES GEORGE LEVISON OR, THE SCHOOLFELLOWS by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM BOOKS ET VERITAS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET CLASS POEM by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE THE GIRL FROM SOAP SUDS ROW by NATHALIA CRANE A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY [DECEMBER 16, 1773] by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES |
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