Oliver Wendell Holmes

(1809-1894 / United States)

Oliver Wendell Holmes Poems

321. Cacoethes Scribendi 1/1/2004
322. Contentment 12/31/2002
323. The Deacon's Masterpiece Or, The Wonderful "One-Hoss Shay": A Logical Story 1/13/2003
324. Martha 12/31/2002
325. The Height Of The Ridiculous 12/31/2002
326. The Last Leaf 12/31/2002
327. Bill And Joe 12/31/2002
328. The Chambered Nautilus 12/31/2002
329. The Flower Of Liberty 12/31/2002
330. A Farewell To Agassiz 12/31/2002
331. The Iron Gate 12/31/2002
332. Old Ironsides 1/1/2004
333. A Parody On “a Psalm Of Life” 5/24/2003
334. The Boys 12/31/2002
335. Sun And Shadow 12/31/2002
336. A Familiar Letter 12/31/2002

Comments about Oliver Wendell Holmes

  • Heidi Litobar (11/12/2017 7:31:00 PM)

    I am trying to find the complete poem that contains, Where we love is home, home that our feet may leave but not our hearts

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  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (3/2/2016 12:45:00 PM)

    (from Wikipedia)
    Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. (August 29,1809 – October 7,1894) was an American physician, poet, professor, lecturer, and author based in Boston. A member of the Fireside Poets, his peers acclaimed him as one of the best writers of the day. His most famous prose works are the Breakfast-Table series, which began with The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table (1858) . He was also an important medical reformer.

    Born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Holmes was educated at Phillips Academy and Harvard College. After graduating from Harvard in 1829, he briefly studied law before turning to the medical profession. He began writing poetry at an early age; one of his most famous works, Old Ironsides, was published in 1830 and was influential in the eventual preservation of the USS Constitution. Following training at the prestigious medical schools of Paris, Holmes was granted his M.D. from Harvard Medical School in 1836. He taught at Dartmouth Medical School before returning to teach at Harvard and, for a time, served as dean there. During his long professorship, he became an advocate for various medical reforms and notably posited the controversial idea that doctors were capable of carrying puerperal fever from patient to patient. Holmes retired from Harvard in 1882 and continued writing poetry, novels and essays until his death in 1894.
    ...

  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (3/2/2016 12:44:00 PM)

    ...
    Surrounded by Boston's literary elite—which included friends such as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and James Russell Lowell—Holmes made an indelible imprint on the literary world of the 19th century. Many of his works were published in The Atlantic Monthly, a magazine that he named. For his literary achievements and other accomplishments, he was awarded numerous honorary degrees from universities around the world. Holmes's writing often commemorated his native Boston area, and much of it was meant to be humorous or conversational. Some of his medical writings, notably his 1843 essay regarding the contagiousness of puerperal fever, were considered innovative for their time. He was often called upon to issue occasional poetry, or poems written specifically for an event, including many occasions at Harvard. Holmes also popularized several terms, including Boston Brahmin and anesthesia.

  • Hannah Martin (2/19/2016 9:34:00 PM)

    Oliver Wendell Holmes is a wonderful poet! I especially love The Chambered Nautilus. It is beautiful, deep, and inspiring!

Best Poem of Oliver Wendell Holmes

A Familiar Letter

YES, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying;
Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold?
I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying,
If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold.

Here's a book full of words; one can choose as he fancies,
As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool;
Just think! all the poems and plays and romances
Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool!

You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes,
And take all you want, not a copper they cost,--
What is...

Read the full of A Familiar Letter

The September Gale

I'M not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;
For me two storms were brewing!

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