The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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"Forever—never!

       Never—forever!"

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      I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

      I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?

      Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

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      Half of my life is gone, and I have let

       The years slip from me and have not fulfilled

       The aspiration of my youth, to build

       Some tower of song with lofty parapet.

      Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret

       Of restless passions chat would not be stilled,

       But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,

       Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;

      Though, half way up the hill, I see the Past

       Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights—

       A city in the twilight dim and vast,

      With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.—

       And hear above me on the autumnal blast

       The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.

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      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.

      O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!

       My morning and my evening star of love!

       My best and gentlest lady! even thus,

      As that fair planet in the sky above,

       Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,

       And from thy darkened window fades the light.

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      Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,

       With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,

       Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,

       And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!

      Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,

       Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand

       Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,

       Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!

      Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended

       So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;

       Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;

      Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;

       And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,

       Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

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      Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom,

       With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes,

       Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise,

       Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.

      Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom;

       Yet in thy heart what human sympathies,

       What soft compassion glows, as in the skies

       The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!

      Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks,

       By Fra Hilario in his diocese,

       As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks,

      The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease;

       And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks,

       Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"

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      Solemnly, mournfully,

       Dealing its dole,

      The Curfew Bell

       Is beginning to toll.

      Cover the embers,

       And put out the light;

      Toil comes with the morning,

       And rest with the night.

      Dark grow the windows,

       And quenched is the fire;

      Sound fades into silence—

       All footsteps retire.

      No voice in the chambers,

       No sound in the hall!

      Sleep and oblivion

       Reign over all!

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      The book is completed,

       And closed, like the day;

      And

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