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Voices Of The Night : Footsteps of Angels

When the hours of Day are numbered,

And the voices of the Night

Wake the better soul, that slumbered,

To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,

And, like phantoms grim and tall,

Shadows from the fitful firelight

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Day Is Done

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of night

As a feather wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist:

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A Shadow

I said unto myself, if I were dead,

What would befall these children? What would be

Their fate, who now are looking up to me

For help and furtherance? Their lives, I said,

Would be a volume wherein I have read

But the first chapters, and no longer see

To read the rest of their dear history,

So full of beauty and so full of dread.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Holidays

The holiest of all holidays are those

Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;

The secret anniversaries of the heart,

When the full river of feeling overflows;—

The happy days unclouded to their close;

The sudden joys that out of darkness start

As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart

Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Nature

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,

Leads by the hand her little child to bed,

Half willing, half reluctant to be led,

And leave his broken playthings on the floor,

Still gazing at them through the open door,

Nor wholly reassured and comforted

By promises of others in their stead,

Which though more splendid, may not please him more;

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Voices Of The Night : Hymn To The Night

Aspasie, trillistos.

I heard the trailing garments of the Night

Sweep through her marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light

From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,

Stoop o'er me from above;

The calm, majestic presence of the Night,

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In The Harbour: Loss And Gain

When I compare

What I have lost with what I have gained,

What I have missed with what attained,

Little room do I find for pride.

I am aware

How many days have been idly spent;

How like an arrow the good intent

Has fallen short or been turned aside.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A Gleam Of Sunshine

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,

Let me review the scene,

And summon from the shadowy Past

The forms that once have been.

The Past and Present here unite

Beneath Time's flowing tide,

Like footprints hidden by a brook,

But seen on either side.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Skeleton In Armour

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!

Who, with thy hollow breast

Still in rude armor drest,

Comest to daunt me!

Wrapt not in Eastern balms,

But with thy fleshless palms

Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?"

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Voices Of The Night : The Reaper And The Flowers

There is a Reaper whose name is Death,

And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,

And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he;

"Have nought but the bearded grain?

Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back again."

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Jewish Cemetery At Newport (Birds Of Passage Flight The First)

How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves,

Close by the street of this fair seaport town,

Silent beside the never-silent waves,

At rest in all this moving up and down!

The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep

Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath,

While underneath these leafy tents they keep

The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

By The Seaside : The Evening Star

Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,

Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,

Like a fair lady at her casement, shines

The evening star, the star of love and rest!

And then anon she doth herself divest

Of all her radiant garments, and reclines

Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,

With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow