They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 
   Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 
   Through the town.

But now he walks the streets 
And he looks at all he meets 
   Sad and wan, 
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 has 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 a 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

(Thanks to my friend John Bauer for sending this poem in)