<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=472570" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Last Reader</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I sometimes sit beneath a tree<br>And read my own sweet songs;<br>Though naught they may to others be,<br>Each humble line prolongs<br>A tone that might have passed away<br>But for that scarce remembered lay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I keep them like a lock or leaf<br>That some dear girl has given;<br>Frail record of an hour, as brief<br>As sunset clouds in heaven,<br>But spreading purple twilight still<br>High over memory’s shadowed hill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They lie upon my pathway bleak,<br>Those flowers that once ran wild,<br>As on a father’s careworn cheek<br>The ringlets of his child;<br>The golden mingling with the gray,<br>And stealing half its snows away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What care I though the dust is spread<br>Around these yellow leaves,<br>Or o’er them his sarcastic thread<br>Oblivion’s insect weaves<br>Though weeds are tangled on the stream,<br>It still reflects my morning’s beam.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And therefore love I such as smile<br>On these neglected songs,<br>Nor deem that flattery’s needless wile<br>My opening bosom wrongs;<br>For who would trample, at my side,<br>A few pale buds, my garden’s pride?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It may be that my scanty ore<br>Long years have washed away,<br>And where were golden sands before<br>Is naught but common clay;<br>Still something sparkles in the sun<br>For memory to look back upon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And when my name no more is heard,<br>My lyre no more is known,<br>Still let me, like a winter’s bird,<br>In silence and alone,<br>Fold over them the weary wing<br>Once flashing through the dews of spring.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap<br>My youth in its decline,<br>And riot in the rosy lap<br>Of thoughts that once were mine,<br>And give the worm my little store<br>When the last reader reads no more!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Oliver+Wendell+Holmes">Oliver Wendell Holmes</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=472570" data-title="The Last Reader de Oliver Wendell Holmes" data-description="I sometimes sit beneath a tree And read my own sweet songs; Though naught they may to others be, Each humble line prolongs A tone that might have passed away But for that scarce remembered lay. I keep them like a lock or leaf That some dear girl ..."></div> </div> </div>

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