The Last Leaf

I saw him once before, As he passed by the door,     And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o’er the ground     With his cane. They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time     Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round     Through the town. 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,     “They are gone.” The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest     In their bloom, 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     In the snow; But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin     Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack     In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin     At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that,     Are so queer! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree     In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough     Where I cling.