The Complete Poems - Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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to say,

      "It cannot be! They pass away!

      Other themes demand thy lay;

       Thou art no more a child!

      "The land of Song within thee lies,

       Watered by living springs;

      The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes

      Are gates unto that Paradise,

      Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,

       Its clouds are angels' wings.

      "Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,

       Not mountains capped with snow,

      Nor forests sounding like the sea,

      Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,

      Where the woodlands bend to see

       The bending heavens below.

      "There is a forest where the din

       Of iron branches sounds!

      A mighty river roars between,

      And whosoever looks therein

      Sees the heavens all black with sin,

       Sees not its depths, nor bounds.

      "Athwart the swinging branches cast,

       Soft rays of sunshine pour;

      Then comes the fearful wintry blast

      Our hopes, like withered leaves, fail fast;

      Pallid lips say, 'It is past!

       We can return no more!,

      "Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

       Yes, into Life's deep stream!

      All forms of sorrow and delight,

      All solemn Voices of the Night,

      That can soothe thee, or affright—

       Be these henceforth thy theme."

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       Table of Contents

      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,

       As of the one I love.

      I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,

       The manifold, soft chimes,

      That fill the haunted chambers of the Night

       Like some old poet's rhymes.

      From the cool cisterns of the midnight air

       My spirit drank repose;

      The fountain of perpetual peace flows there—

       From those deep cisterns flows.

      O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear

       What man has borne before!

      Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,

       And they complain no more.

      Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!

       Descend with broad-winged flight,

      The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,

       The best-beloved Night!

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       Table of Contents

      Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

       Life is but an empty dream!

      For the soul is dead that slumbers,

       And things are not what they seem.

      Life is real! Life is earnest!

       And the grave is not its goal;

      Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

       Was not spoken of the soul.

      Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

       Is our destined end or way;

      But to act, that each to-morrow

       Find us farther than to-day.

      Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

       And our hearts, though stout and brave,

      Still, like muffled drums, are beating

       Funeral marches to the grave.

      In the world's broad field of battle,

       In the bivouac of Life,

      Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

       Be a hero in the strife!

      Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

       Let the dead Past bury its dead!

      Act—act in the living Present!

       Heart within, and God o'erhead!

      Lives of great men all remind us

       We can make our lives sublime,

      And, departing, leave behind us

       Footprints on the sands of time;—

      Footprints, that perhaps another,

       Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

      A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

       Seeing, shall take heart again.

      Let us, then, be up and doing,

       With a heart for any fate;

      Still achieving, still pursuing,

       Learn to labor and to wait.

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      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 naught that is fair?" saith he;

       "Have naught but the bearded grain?

      Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

       I will give them all back again."

      He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

       He kissed their drooping leaves;

      It was for the Lord of Paradise

       He bound them in

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