 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
THE FISH PIECES
Oft have I marked a pale, thin man—
—I would not here reveal his name—
But I have seen him sadly turn
From gaudy hues and gilded frame,
And stand in silence, hour by hour
Until his gazing eye was dim,
And look, and look, till fancy seemed
To fry those very fish for him.
—I would not here reveal his name—
But I have seen him sadly turn
From gaudy hues and gilded frame,
And stand in silence, hour by hour
Until his gazing eye was dim,
And look, and look, till fancy seemed
To fry those very fish for him.
And sometimes he would wildly glance
Upon the martyr's fiery bed,
And I could see that yearning thoughts
Flashed fiercely through his aching head;
Well could I see his trembling hand
Was carving out a fancied slice—
Well did I know his busy brain
Thought that the broiling saint looked nice.
Upon the martyr's fiery bed,
And I could see that yearning thoughts
Flashed fiercely through his aching head;
Well could I see his trembling hand
Was carving out a fancied slice—
Well did I know his busy brain
Thought that the broiling saint looked nice.
I could not bear to see him walk
Among the fluttering summer things
That float along the silent floor,
And spread their little painted wings.
What were to him the Sunset Scenes,
Or soft Madonna's drooping hair?
Can ringlets bind the breaking heart?
Can hunger feed on golden air?
Among the fluttering summer things
That float along the silent floor,
And spread their little painted wings.
What were to him the Sunset Scenes,
Or soft Madonna's drooping hair?
Can ringlets bind the breaking heart?
Can hunger feed on golden air?
I pitied him, for he was poor—
I loved him, for he was alone—
The man who wears a threadbare coat
Is seldom sought, and little known—
Alas! I saw his pallid cheek
Each day grow thinner than before;
There was a funeral Friday night—
That pallid cheek is seen no more!
I loved him, for he was alone—
The man who wears a threadbare coat
Is seldom sought, and little known—
Alas! I saw his pallid cheek
Each day grow thinner than before;
There was a funeral Friday night—
That pallid cheek is seen no more!
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |