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The Rhyme Maker
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
1809-1894


Theme:  Ageing


NOTES:
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. was a noted physician and lecturer, as well as a voluminous "part-time" poet. It was in his role as a lecturer/public speaker that Holmes wrote many of his poems, and much of his poetry bear a perspective of some special occasion.

Holmes' son (“Junior”, 1831-1935) was a Justice of the United States Supreme Court. This Supreme Court jurist inherited his father's wit, which is often displayed in his pithy remarks and official opinions.  Junior is one of the “most-cited” justices of the court.

[first stanza): lay = poem


[second stanza]: The story of Cadmus (founder of the city of Thebes) is one of the great “hero tales” from Greek mythology, while the tale of Atreus (king of Mycenae) is filled with gruesome violence and in-family intrigue.  This is not the type of “stuff” of which Anacreon wrote or sang.
- S. H. Bass  


more Oliver Wendell Holmes at vintagewinepoems.com
An Impromptu
Mare Rebrum

Ode For A Social Meeting (with alterations)

The Voiceless
  A/V


The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes




Stop Button Clutter!
The Lyre Of Anacreon
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. (1809-1894), American poet

The minstrel of the classic lay
Of love and wine who sings
Still found the fingers run astray
That touched the rebel strings.

Of Cadmus he would fain have sung,
Of Atreus and his line;
But all the jocund echoes rung
With songs of love and wine.

Ah, brothers! I would fain have caught
Some fresher fancy's gleam;
My truant accents find, unsought,
The old familiar theme.

Love, Love! but not the sportive child
With shaft and twanging bow,
Whose random arrows drove us wild
Some threescore years ago;

Not Eros, with his joyous laugh,
The urchin blind and bare,
But Love, with spectacles and staff,
And scanty, silvered hair.

Our heads with frosted locks are white,
Our roofs are thatched with snow,
But red, in chilling winter's spite,
Our hearts and hearthstones glow.

Our old acquaintance, Time, drops in,
And while the running sands
Their golden thread unheeded spin,
He warms his frozen hands.

Stay, winged hours, too swift, too sweet,
And waft this message o'er
To all we miss, from all we meet
On life's fast-crumbling shore:

Say that, to old affection true,
We hug the narrowing chain
That binds our hearts, – alas, how few
The links that yet remain!

The fatal touch awaits them all
That turns the rocks to dust;
From year to year they break and fall, –
They break, but never rust.

Say if one note of happier strain
This worn-out harp afford, –
One throb that trembles, not in vain, –
Their memory lent its chord.

Say that when Fancy closed her wings
And Passion quenched his fire,
Love, Love, still echoed from the strings
As from Anacreon's lyre.


from The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes


       

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