Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
First Lines
A handful of red sand, from the hot clime
A mist was driving down the British Channel,
A wind came up out of the sea,
A youth, light-hearted and content,
Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Am I a king, that I should call my own
An old man in a lodge within a park;
And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,
Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old,
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
As the birds come in the Spring,
Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers,
By his evening fire the artist
Christ to the young man said: "Yet one thing more;
Come, old friend! sit down and listen!
Flow on, sweet river! like his verse
Forms of saints and kings are standing
Four limpid lakes, -- four Naiades
God sent his Singers upon earth
Hast thou seen that lordly castle,
Have I dreamed? or was it real,
Have you read in the Talmud of old,
Here in a little rustic hermitage
Here lies the gentle humourist, who died
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
How I started up in the night, in the night,
How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves,
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
I heard the trailing garments of the Night
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
I stood on the bridge at midnight,
I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
I thought this Pen would arise
In broad daylight, and at noon,
In his chamber, weak and dying,
In St. Luke's Gospel we are told
In the old churchyard of his native town,
In the village churchyard she lies,
King Christian stood by the lofty mast
Labour with what zeal we will,
Leafless are the trees; their purple branches
Like two cathedral towers these stately pines
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Little sweet wine of Jurancon,
My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery,
My way is on the bright blue sea,
Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face,
O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn!
O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!
O little feet! that such long years
O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped!
O weathercock on the village spire,
O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended!
Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord
Often I think of the beautiful town
On St. Bavon's tower, commanding
On the cross the dying Saviour
On the green little isle of Inchkenneth
Once the Emperor Charles of Spain
Once upon Iceland's solitary strand
One day, Haroun Al Raschid read
Pleasant it was, when woods were green,
Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine;
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain,
Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest
Somewhat back from the village street
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
St. Botolph's Town! Hither across the plains
Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old;
Take them, O Death! and bear away
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
The ceaseless rain is falling fast,
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
The day is done, and the darkness
The night is come, but not too soon;
The rising moon has hid the stars;
The shades of night were falling fast,
The sun is bright, the air is clear,
The twilight is sad and cloudy,
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
There was a time when I was very small,
These words the poet heard in paradise,
This is the place. Stand still, my steed,
Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud
Thou of the Glass and Scythe! the fallen fane
Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower
Thou that from the heaven's art,
Three Kings came riding from far away,
Three Silences there are; the first of speech,
'Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness,
Two angels, one of Life and one of Death,
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
Until we meet again! That is the meaning
Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing
What an image of peace and rest
What phantom is this, that appears
When the hours of Day are numbered,
When the summer harvest was gathered in,
When the warm sun, that brings
When Winter winds are piercing chill,
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest
Why dost thou wildly rush and roar,
With favouring winds, o'er sunlit seas, land of fiction, truth,
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