 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
O. W. H.
AUGUST 29, 1879.
You may change the initials, and say, if you can,
H. O. W. it is,—by what magical plan,
He edges with wisdom the blade of his wit,
Gives his neatly-cut satire its delicate fit;
Fuses humor with pathos, a mixture so fine
Heads are cleared and hearts touched, as by subtlest of wine.
H. O. W. it is,—by what magical plan,
He edges with wisdom the blade of his wit,
Gives his neatly-cut satire its delicate fit;
Fuses humor with pathos, a mixture so fine
Heads are cleared and hearts touched, as by subtlest of wine.
255
You cannot tell how? Well, then, W. H. O.?
Who is he? His masterly lyrics we know;
We learned in our childhood the charm of his page,
And his verse does not show yet one sign of old age:
Though our own heads may whiten, he makes us feel young
With his songs, through all seasons so cheerily sung.
Who is he? His masterly lyrics we know;
We learned in our childhood the charm of his page,
And his verse does not show yet one sign of old age:
Though our own heads may whiten, he makes us feel young
With his songs, through all seasons so cheerily sung.
Go back to the O. W. H., that so long,
As a key, has unlocked for us story and song!
With the tools that he uses no tyro need play;
He is—just himself; works in—just his own way.
Leave the letters in order,—the sign of our debt:
The name that they stand for we cannot forget!
As a key, has unlocked for us story and song!
With the tools that he uses no tyro need play;
He is—just himself; works in—just his own way.
Leave the letters in order,—the sign of our debt:
The name that they stand for we cannot forget!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |