I saw him once before, <br /> As he passed by the door, <br /> And again <br />The pavement stones resound, <br /> As he totters o'er the ground <br /> With his cane. <br /> <br /> They say that in his prime, <br /> Ere the pruning-knife of Time <br /> Cut him down, <br /> Not a better man was found <br /> By the Crier on his round <br /> Through the town. <br /> <br /> But now he walks the streets, <br /> And he looks at all he meets <br /> Sad and wan, <br />And he shakes his feeble head, <br /> That it seems as if he said, <br /> "They are gone!" <br /> <br /> The mossy marbles rest <br /> On the lips that he has prest <br /> In their bloom, <br />And the names he loved to hear <br />Have been carved for many a year <br /> On the tomb. <br /> <br /> My grandmamma has said-- <br /> Poor old lady, she is dead <br /> Long ago-- <br /> That he had a Roman nose, <br /> And his cheek was like a rose <br /> In the snow; <br /> <br /> But now his nose is thin, <br /> And it rests upon his chin <br /> Like a staff, <br /> And a crook is in his back, <br /> And a melancholy crack <br /> In his laugh. <br /> <br /> I know it is a sin <br /> For me to sit and grin <br /> At him here; <br />But the old three-cornered hat, <br />And the breeches, and all that, <br /> Are so queer! <br /> <br /> And if I should live to be <br /> The last leaf upon the tree <br /> In the spring, <br /> Let them smile, as I do now, <br /> At the old forsaken bough <br /> Where I cling.<br /><br />Oliver Wendell Holmes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-last-leaf/
