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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
FOR WHITTIER'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: I believe that the copies of verses I've spun Last Line: Till we've paid him in love half the balance we owe! Subject(s): Whittier, John Greenleaf (1807-1892) | |||
I BELIEVE that the copies of verses I've spun, Like Scheherezade's tales, are a thousand and one; You remember the story, -- those mornings in bed, -- 'T was the turn of a copper, -- a tale or a head. A doom like Scheherezade's falls upon me In a mandate as stern as the Sultan's decree: I'm a florist in verse, and what would people say If I came to a banquet without my bouquet? It is trying, no doubt, when the company knows Just the look and the smell of each lily and rose, The green of each leaf in the sprigs that I bring, And the shape of the bunch and the knot of the string. Yes, -- "the style is the man," and the nib of one's pen Makes the same mark at twenty, and threescore and ten; It is so in all matters, if truth may be told; Let one look at the cast he can tell you the mould. How we all know each other! no use in disguise; Through the holes in the mask comes the flash of the eyes; We can tell by his -- somewhat -- each one of our tribe, As we know the old hat which we cannot describe. Though in Hebrew, in Sanscrit, in Choctaw you write, Sweet singer who gave us the Voices of Night, Though in buskin or slipper your song may be shod, Or the velvety verse that Evangeline trod, We shall say, "You can't cheat us, -- we know it is you," There is one voice like that, but there cannot be two, Maestro, whose chant like the dulcimer rings: And the woods will be hushed while the nightingale sings. And he, so serene, so majestic, so true, Whose temple hypaethral the planets shine through, Let us catch but five words from that mystical pen, We should know our one sage from all children of men. And he whose bright image no distance can dim, Through a hundred disguises we can't mistake him, Whose play is all earnest, whose wit is the edge (With a beetle behind) of a sham-splitting wedge. Do you know whom we send you, Hidalgos of Spain? Do you know your old friends when you see them again? Hosea was Sancho! you Dons of Madrid, But Sancho that wielded the lance of the Cid! And the wood-thrush of Essex, -- you know whom I mean, Whose song echoes round us while he sits unseen, Whose heart-throbs of verse through our memories thrill Like a breath from the wood, like a breeze from the hill, So fervid, so simple, so loving, so pure, We hear but one strain and our verdict is sure, -- Thee cannot elude us, -- no further we search, -- 'T is Holy George Herbert cut loose from his church! We think it the voice of a seraph that sings, -- Alas! we remember that angels have wings, -- What story is this of the day of his birth? Let him live to a hundred! we want him on earth! One life has been paid him (in gold) by the sun; One account has been squared and another begun; But he never will die if he lingers below Till we've paid him in love half the balance we owe! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AS THE GREEK'S SIGNAL FLAME by WALT WHITMAN WHITE MAGIC: AN ODE by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER by PHOEBE CARY TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER by CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH WHITTIER by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE SNOW-MESSENGERS by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE TO THE POET WHITTIER, ON HIS 70TH BIRTHDAY by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE TO WHITTIER by JOSEPHINE DEPHINE HENDERSON HEARD IN MEMORY OF JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY [DECEMBER 16, 1773] by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES |
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