Evening. By A Tailor Poem Rhyme Scheme

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Day hath put on his jacket and around	A
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars	B
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass	C
That is like padding to earth s meagre ribs	D
And hold communion with the things about me	E
Ah me how lovely is the golden braid	F
That binds the skirt of night s descending robe	G
The thin leaves quivering on their silken threads	H
Do make a music like to rustling satin	I
As the light breezes smooth their downy nap	J
	-
Ha what is this that rises to my touch	K
So like a cushion Can it be a cabbage	L
It is it is that deeply injured flower	M
Which boys do flout us with but yet I love thee	E
Thou giant rose wrapped in a green surtout	F
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright	F
As these thy puny brethren and thy breath	N
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air	O
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau	P
Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences	H
And growing portly in his sober garments	H
	-
Is that a swan that rides upon the water	M
Oh no it is that other gentle bird	F
Which is the patron of our noble calling	Q
I well remember in my early years	H
When these young hands first closed upon a goose	H
I have a scar upon my thimble finger	M
Which chronicles the hour of young ambition	I
My father was a tailor and his father	M
And my sire s grandsire all of them were tailors	H
They had an ancient goose it was an heirloom	R
From some remoter tailor of our race	H
It happened I did see it on a time	S
When none was near and I did deal with it	F
And it did burn me oh most fearfully	T
	-
It is a joy to straighten out one s limbs	H
And leap elastic from the level counter	M
Leaving the petty grievances of earth	U
The breaking thread the din of clashing shears	H
And all the needles that do wound the spirit	F
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence	H
Kind Nature shuffling in her loose undress	H
Lays bare her shady bosom I can feel	T
With all around me I can hail the flowers	H
That sprig earth s mantle and yon quiet bird	F
That rides the stream is to me as a brother	M
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets	H
Where Nature stows away her loveliness	H
But this unnatural posture of the legs	H
Cramps my extended calves and I must go	P
Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion	I

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Evening. By A Tailor Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

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