But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
So forlorn; 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 had pressed
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 rests upon his chin
Like a staff; And a crook is in his back,
And the melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here, But the old three-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.
YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA.
I've overlived aspirings,
My fancies I disdain; The fruit of hollow-heartedness,
Sufferings alone remain.