Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Last Lines
A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.
Against His messengers to shut the door?
And fleets attend thy progress to the sea!
And flung his useless pen into the sea.
And is forgotten, save by thee alone.
And learn there may be worship without words.
And returned to their homes by another way.
And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."
And speakest only when thy soul is stirred!
And still he follows where it goes.
And the dead nations never rise again.
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.
And trails its blossoms in the dust.
As they onward bear the message!
Bathed in a golden atmosphere.
Be these henceforth thy theme.
Blithe as the air is, and as free?
Buy with gold the old associations!
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.
Drive the colour from her cheek?
Each burning deed and thought.
Emblems of the bright and better land.
Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed.
For thy allegiance to the poet's art.
From the unending endless quest.
God! may I never, never, lose that too!
Hath lean'd on me, I glory in myself.
He would wall himself round with a fort.
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
Household words, no more depart.
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
How lurid looks this soul of mine!
"I came from martyrdom unto this peace."
I found again in the heart of a friend.
I listen, and it cheers me long.
I pressed his warm, soft hand!
In air their unsubstantial masonry.
In an eddy of wind is the anchored soul.
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.
In your own secret sins and terrors!
Learned the sweet songs of the Pierides.
Let us turn and wander thither!
Midway between earth and heaven.
Mysterious and triumphant signs are these!
Neither Poet nor Printer may know.
Of the vast plain where Death encamps!
On the banks of the Beautiful River.
On the leaves of an aged tree.
On their shoulders held the sky.
Once rustled in the breeze, where rolleth now the main.
One day like the Luck of Edenhall!
Rise odours of ploughed field or flowery mead.
"Roses in the spring I gather!"
Round me still these birds of air.
Sends a thrilling pulse through me.
Shape from that thy work of art.
Sing them till the night expire!
Some days must be dark and dreary.
Songs, like legends, strange to hear.
Such as these have lived and died!
Tears fell upon the page he read.
That failed in the autumnal flask!
That here a wandering poet sings.
That lies concentrated in a single word.
That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow.
That, entranced, I gaze on nightly!
The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!
The mills are tired of waiting.
The peace of God in all thy looks!
The Remorse in thy heart that is beating.
The world more fair and sweet.
The youngest sorrows till death.
Their glory shall inherit and prolong?
There are no birds in last year's nest
They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known.
This is the place where human harvests grow.
To be interpreted by such a voice!
To his long resting-place without a tear.
To something nobler we attain.
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
We must drink to one Saint more!
Were withered by snow and frost.
When from the body
It should be led forth.
"Where hast thou stayed so long?"
Which the cannon-shot had shattered
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.
"Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend.
With no vain pride and pageantry.
With peace on earth, good-will to men!
With the murmuring sound of rhyme.
