The Complete Poems - Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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in Paradise!

      He needs must think of her once more,

       How in the grave she lies;

      And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

       A tear out of his eyes.

      Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing,

       Onward through life he goes;

      Each morning sees some task begin,

       Each evening sees it close

      Something attempted, something done,

       Has earned a night's repose.

      Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

      For the lesson thou hast taught!

      Thus at the flaming forge of life

       Our fortunes must be wrought;

      Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

       Each burning deed and thought.

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      The rising moon has hid the stars;

      Her level rays, like golden bars,

       Lie on the landscape green,

       With shadows brown between.

      And silver white the river gleams,

      As if Diana, in her dreams,

       Had dropt her silver bow

       Upon the meadows low.

      On such a tranquil night as this,

      She woke Endymion with a kiss,

       When, sleeping in the grove,

       He dreamed not of her love.

      Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,

      Love gives itself, but is not bought;

       Nor voice, nor sound betrays

       Its deep, impassioned gaze.

      It comes—the beautiful, the free,

      The crown of all humanity—

       In silence and alone

       To seek the elected one.

      It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep

      Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,

       And kisses the closed eyes

       Of him, who slumbering lies.

      O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!

      O drooping souls, whose destinies

       Are fraught with fear and pain,

       Ye shall be loved again!

      No one is so accursed by fate,

      No one so utterly desolate,

       But some heart, though unknown,

       Responds unto his own.

      Responds—as if with unseen wings,

      An angel touched its quivering strings;

       And whispers, in its song,

       "'Where hast thou stayed so long?"

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      No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.

       Spanish Proverb

      The sun is bright—the air is clear,

       The darting swallows soar and sing.

      And from the stately elms I hear

       The bluebird prophesying Spring.

      So blue you winding river flows,

       It seems an outlet from the sky,

      Where waiting till the west-wind blows,

       The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

      All things are new;—the buds, the leaves,

       That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,

       And even the nest beneath the eaves;—

       There are no birds in last year's nest!

      All things rejoice in youth and love,

       The fulness of their first delight!

       And learn from the soft heavens above

       The melting tenderness of night.

      Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,

       Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;

      Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,

       For oh, it is not always May!

      Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

       To some good angel leave the rest;

      For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

       There are no birds in last year's nest!

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      The day is cold, and dark, and dreary

      It rains, and the wind is never weary;

      The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

      But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

       And the day is dark and dreary.

      My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

      It rains, and the wind is never weary;

      My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,

      But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

       And the days are dark and dreary.

      Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

      Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

      Thy fate is the common fate of all,

      Into each life some rain must fall,

       Some days must be dark and dreary.

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      I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

       The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;

      It consecrates each grave within its walls,

       And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

      God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

       Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown

      The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,

       Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

      Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

       In the sure faith, that we shall rise again

      At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast

       Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

      Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

      

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