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H. C. M. H. S. J. K. W.

By Oliver Wendell Holmes

Topics: classic

The dirge is played, the throbbing death-peal rung,     The sad-voiced requiem sung;     On each white urn where memory dwells     The wreath of rustling immortelles     Our loving hands have hung,     And balmiest leaves have strown and tenderest blossoms flung.     The birds that filled the air with songs have flown,     The wintry blasts have blown,     And these for whom the voice of spring     Bade the sweet choirs their carols sing     Sleep in those chambers lone     Where snows untrodden lie, unheard the night-winds moan.     We clasp them all in memory, as the vine     Whose running stems intwine     The marble shaft, and steal around     The lowly stone, the nameless mound;     With sorrowing hearts resign     Our brothers true and tried, and close our broken line.     How fast the lamps of life grow dim and die     Beneath our sunset sky!     Still fading, as along our track     We cast our saddened glances back,     And while we vainly sigh     The shadowy day recedes, the starry night draws nigh.     As when from pier to pier across the tide     With even keel we glide,     The lights we left along the shore     Grow less and less, while more, yet more     New vistas open wide     Of fair illumined streets and casements golden-eyed.     Each closing circle of our sunlit sphere     Seems to bring heaven more near     Can we not dream that those we love     Are listening in the world above     And smiling as they hear     The voices known so well of friends that still are dear?     Does all that made us human fade away     With this dissolving clay?     Nay, rather deem the blessed isles     Are bright and gay with joyous smiles,     That angels have their play,     And saints that tire of song may claim their holiday.     All else of earth may perish; love alone     Not heaven shall find outgrown!     Are they not here, our spirit guests,     With love still throbbing in their breasts?     Once more let flowers be strown.     Welcome, ye shadowy forms, we count you still our own!

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Author:Oliver Wendell Holmes

"The dirge is played, the throbbing death-peal rung..." by Oliver Wendell Holmes

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

About Oliver Wendell Holmes

Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. (1809–1894) was an American poet, physician, and essayist. His poems "Old Ironsides" and "The Chambered Nautilus" are American classics. He was part of the Fireside Poets group.

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