The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Complete

ed night; the

its my search i

rudge an hour,

adder and to

ootsteps to the

wreath my sleepl

d laurel such

n some stronger

shrivelling trop

garland whose

ange, nor wrath

heart-beats I s

raise; but bett

unshaped age

ines of unacc

ped with morni

olden days,-in

koned with the

azoned on th

he stars themse

all the roll of

ce unborn i

with the Olympi

indle through t

God of Battle

cean, and yon

im who gave h

net with the w

Queen of Beaut

moon-girt orb

n through all e

tched beneath

rkness, found, a

name thencefor

t name be sy

gues of all th

een through i

dust of my f

cents shaped of

mortal sembla

one, in undec

high, and loo

that calls the

, that, blown a

seeming of t

ond the world th

ite,-a cloud tha

ul that looks for

oral-insect

ain he lent to

ers stamped thei

atient servic

her sit bene

elm I planted

her heed the

rock that wre

e my task and

t thy part, un

ow her trumpet

nd to swell a

truth he stumbl

th some singl

reat account

one upon the

gel shows the

vice comes from

ervant does hi

eds of fire and

h, in buds and f

aring flames the

e moulded met

ragging car it

ed that whirls it

ft their work and

urmur at a fat

avenly light;

cloud drifting