Henry Longfellow - The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

And silver white the river gleams,

As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow

Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,

She woke Endymion with a kiss,

When, sleeping in the grove,

He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,

Love gives itself, but is not bought;

Nor voice, nor sound betrays

Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes—the beautiful, the free,

The crown of all humanity—

In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep

Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,

And kisses the closed eyes

Of him, who slumbering lies.

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!

O drooping souls, whose destinies

Are fraught with fear and pain,

Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,

No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,

Responds unto his own.

Responds—as if with unseen wings,

An angel touched its quivering strings;

And whispers, in its song,

"'Where hast thou stayed so long?"

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No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.

Spanish Proverb

The sun is bright—the air is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing.

And from the stately elms I hear

The bluebird prophesying Spring.

So blue you winding river flows,

It seems an outlet from the sky,

Where waiting till the west-wind blows,

The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new;—the buds, the leaves,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,

And even the nest beneath the eaves;—

There are no birds in last year's nest!

All things rejoice in youth and love,

The fulness of their first delight!

And learn from the soft heavens above

The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,

For oh, it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest;

For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest!

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The day is cold, and dark, and dreary

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;

It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown

The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,

Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth;

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;

This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow!

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River! that in silence windest

Through the meadows, bright and free,

Till at length thy rest thou findest

In the bosom of the sea!

Four long years of mingled feeling,

Half in rest, and half in strife,

I have seen thy waters stealing

Onward, like the stream of life.

Thou hast taught me, Silent River!

Many a lesson, deep and long;

Thou hast been a generous giver;

I can give thee but a song.

Oft in sadness and in illness,

I have watched thy current glide,

Till the beauty of its stillness

Overflowed me, like a tide.

And in better hours and brighter,

When I saw thy waters gleam,

I have felt my heart beat lighter,

And leap onward with thy stream.

Not for this alone I love thee,

Nor because thy waves of blue

From celestial seas above thee

Take their own celestial hue.

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,

And thy waters disappear,

Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,

And have made thy margin dear.

More than this;—thy name reminds me

Of three friends, all true and tried;

And that name, like magic, binds me

Closer, closer to thy side.

Friends my soul with joy remembers!

How like quivering flames they start,

When I fan the living embers

On the hearth-stone of my heart!

'T is for this, thou Silent River!

That my spirit leans to thee;

Thou hast been a generous giver,

Take this idle song from me.

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Blind Bartimeus at the gates Of Jericho in darkness waits; He hears the crowd;—he hears a breath Say, "It is Christ of Nazareth!" And calls, in tones of agony, [Greek here]

The thronging multitudes increase; Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace! But still, above the noisy crowd, The beggar's cry is shrill and loud; Until they say, "He calleth thee!" [Greek here]

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands The crowd, "What wilt thou at my hands?" And he replies, "O give me light! Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight. And Jesus answers, '[Greek here]' [Greek here]!

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, In darkness and in misery, Recall those mighty Voices Three, [Greek here]! [Greek here]! [Greek here]!

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Filled is Life's goblet to the brim;

And though my eyes with tears are dim,

I see its sparkling bubbles swim,

And chant a melancholy hymn

With solemn voice and slow.

No purple flowers—no garlands green,

Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen,

Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,

Like gleams of sunshine, flash between

Thick leaves of mistletoe.

This goblet, wrought with curious art,

Is filled with waters, that upstart,

When the deep fountains of the heart,

By strong convulsions rent apart,

Are running all to waste.

And as it mantling passes round,

With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,

Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned

Are in its waters steeped and drowned,

And give a bitter taste.

Above the lowly plants it towers,

The fennel, with its yellow flowers,

And in an earlier age than ours

Was gifted with the wondrous powers,

Lost vision to restore.

It gave new strength, and fearless mood;

And gladiators, fierce and rude,

Mingled it in their daily food;

And he who battled and subdued,

A wreath of fennel wore.

Then in Life's goblet freely press,

The leaves that give it bitterness,

Nor prize the colored waters less,