Last Lines of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.A name upon men's lips.Against His messengers to shut the door?All its grace and mystery.And all is peace within.And all the rest are dead.And as silently steal away.And fleets attend thy progress to the sea!And flung his useless pen into the sea.And hateful to see.And is forgotten, save by thee alone.And its wavering image here.And learn there may be worship without words.And my boy does not return!And pain.And returned to their homes by another way.And said,
It should be led forth.When the Angel says:
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 thus to journey on!And took the flowers away.And trails its blossoms in the dust.Are melting away with love!As they onward bear the message!Bathed in a golden atmosphere.Be these henceforth thy theme.
Behold this walrus-tooth!Better than with mine own.Blithe as the air is, and as free?Blossom again in song.Breathed so softly in my ear?But the most perfect harmony.Buy with gold the old associations!Calls them, they slumber!Christe, eleyson!Dear guest and ghost!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.Excelsior!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 had sent this Ship of Air.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!I wish that I were dead.In air their unsubstantial masonry.In an eddy of wind is the anchored soul.In every brooklet clear.In the head of old Silenus!In the rapid and rushing river of Time.In the Valley of the Vire.In your own secret sins and terrors!Into the Silent Land!Learn to labour and to wait.Learned the sweet songs of the Pierides.Let us turn and wander thither!Life's golden fruit is shed.Like a funeral bell.Make a glove of such a size?Midway between earth and heaven.My grave!Mysterious and triumphant signs are these!Neither Poet nor Printer may know.Never -- for ever!No longer.No maiden was by their side!O Absalom, my son!Of the muddy banks of Time.Of the vast plain where Death encamps!Of Victor Galbraith!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!Our ghastly fears are dead.Reign over all.Rise odours of ploughed field or flowery mead.
Roses in the spring I gather!Round me still these birds of air.Saint Filomena bore.Sends a thrilling pulse through me.Shape from that thy work of art.She is fooling thee!Shines on a distant field.Sing them till the night expire!Sinking, vanish all away.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 a great man was dead.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 best beloved Night!The half-hour's sand is run!The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood!The memory shall be ours.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 nestThere lies the happiest land!They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known.This is the place where human harvests grow.Thou too shalt rest.To be interpreted by such a voice!To his long resting-place without a tear.To quiet its fever and pain.To something nobler we attain.To stay at home is best.To suffer and be strong.To wood and field.Trembling in the storm!Unconsumed by moth or rust.Until we meet again.Upon the paths of men.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.When the Angel says:
Write!Where Badoura is unknown.
Where hast thou stayed so long?Which the cannon-shot had shatteredWhile 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.Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn!You will thank me for looking some other way.