Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Feb. 27, 1807 - Mar. 24, 1882

 

First Lines of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A handful of red sand, from the hot climeA 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 meAll houses wherein men have lived and diedAm I a king, that I should call my ownAn 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,Behold! a giant am I!Bell! thou soundest merrily,Black shadows fallBy his evening fire the artistChrist to the young man said: "Yet one thing more;Come to me, O ye children!Come, old friend! sit down and listen!Dead he lay among his books!Flow on, sweet river! like his verseFor thee was a house builtForms of saints and kings are standingFour limpid lakes, -- four NaiadesGarlands upon his grave,God sent his Singers upon earthHast 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 hermitageHere lies the gentle humourist, who diedHow beautiful is the rain!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,How they so softly rest,I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,I hear along our streetI heard a brooklet gushingI heard the bells on Christmas DayI heard the trailing garments of the NightI know a maiden fair to see,I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which callsI see amid the fields of AyrI shot an arrow into the air,I stood on the bridge at midnight,I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide archI thought this Pen would ariseIn broad daylight, and at noon,In his chamber, weak and dying,In Mather's Magnalia Christi,In St. Luke's Gospel we are toldIn the old churchyard of his native town,In the Valley of the VireIn the village churchyard she lies,Into the Silent Land!Is it so far from theeIt was fifty years ago,Just above yon sandy bar,King Christian stood by the lofty mastLabour with what zeal we will,Leafless are the trees; their purple branchesLike two cathedral towers these stately pinesListen, my children, and you shall hearLittle sweet wine of Jurancon,Much it behovethMy 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 gift of God! O perfect day:O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches!O little feet! that such long yearsO lovely river of Yvette!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 LordOf Prometheus, how undauntedOften I think of the beautiful townOn St. Bavon's tower, commandingOn the cross the dying SaviourOn the green little isle of InchkennethOnce the Emperor Charles of SpainOnce upon Iceland's solitary strandOne day, Haroun Al Raschid readOthere, the old sea-captain,Out of the bosom of the Air,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 restSolemnly, mournfully,Somewhat back from the village streetSouthward with fleet of iceSpake full well, in language quaint and olden,St. Botolph's Town! Hither across the plainsStay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old;Take them, O Death! and bear awayTell 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 darknessThe day is ending,The night is come, but not too soon;The old house by the lindensThe rising moon has hid the stars;The rivers rush into the sea,The sea hath its pearls,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 sat one day in quiet,There was a time when I was very small,These words the poet heard in paradise,This is the place. Stand still, my steed,This song of mineThou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loudThou of the Glass and Scythe! the fallen faneThou Royal River, born of sun and showerThou 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-treeUnder the walls of MontereyUntil we meet again! That is the meaningViswamitra the Magician,Welcome, O Stork! that dost wingWhat an image of peace and restWhat phantom is this, that appearsWhen descends on the AtlanticWhen Marzaran, the magician,When the hours of Day are numbered,When the summer harvest was gathered in,When the warm sun, that bringsWhen Winter winds are piercing chill,Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,Whereunto is money good?White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nestWhither, thou turbid wave?Who love would seek,Why dost thou wildly rush and roar,With favouring winds, o'er sunlit seas, land of fiction, truth,With what a glory comes and goes the year!Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,Ye voices, that aroseYes, the Year is growing old,