On the morrow, when the village But they found, upon the greensward Where his struggling hoofs had trod, Pure and bright, a fountain flowing From the hoof-marks in the sod. From that hour, the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW INDER a spreading chestnut tree With large and sinewy hands; His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Like a sexton ringing the village bell And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling ― rejoicing — sorrowing – Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Thus at the flaming forge of life Thus on its sounding anvil shaped THE LAST LEAF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES SAW him once before, As he passed by the door, The pavement stones resound, They say that in his prime, Not a better man was found 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, 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 But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, Where I cling. |