The Complete Poems - Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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To the voice gentle and low

      Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,

       "Pray do not mock me so!

       Do not laugh at me!"

      And now the sweet day is dead;

       Cold in his arms it lies;

      No stain from its breath is spread

       Over the glassy skies,

       No mist or stain!

      Then, too, the Old Year dieth,

       And the forests utter a moan,

      Like the voice of one who crieth

       In the wilderness alone,

       "Vex not his ghost!"

      Then comes, with an awful roar,

       Gathering and sounding on,

      The storm-wind from Labrador,

       The wind Euroclydon,

       The storm-wind!

      Howl! howl! and from the forest

       Sweep the red leaves away!

      Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,

       O Soul! could thus decay,

       And be swept away!

      For there shall come a mightier blast,

       There shall be a darker day;

      And the stars, from heaven down-cast

       Like red leaves be swept away!

       Kyrie, eleyson!

       Christe, eleyson!

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      When the warm sun, that brings

      Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,

      'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

       The first flower of the plain.

       I love the season well,

      When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,

      Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

       The coming-on of storms.

       From the earth's loosened mould

      The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;

      Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,

       The drooping tree revives.

       The softly-warbled song

      Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings

      Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along

       The forest openings.

       When the bright sunset fills

      The silver woods with light, the green slope throws

      Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,

       And wide the upland glows.

       And when the eve is born,

      In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,

      Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,

       And twinkles many a star.

       Inverted in the tide

      Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,

      And the fair trees look over, side by side,

       And see themselves below.

       Sweet April! many a thought

      Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;

      Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,

       Life's golden fruit is shed.

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      With what a glory comes and goes the year!

      The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers

      Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy

      Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;

      And when the silver habit of the clouds

      Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with

      A sober gladness the old year takes up

      His bright inheritance of golden fruits,

      A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

       There is a beautiful spirit breathing now

      Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,

      And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,

      Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,

      And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.

      Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,

      Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales

      The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,

      Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life

      Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,

      And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,

      Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down

      By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees

      The golden robin moves. The purple finch,

      That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,

      A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,

      And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud

      From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,

      And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,

      Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

       O what a glory doth this world put on

      For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth

      Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks

      On duties well performed, and days well spent!

      For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,

      Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.

      He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death

      Has lifted up for all, that he shall go

      To his long resting-place without a tear.

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      When winter winds are piercing chill,

       And through the hawthorn blows the gale,

      With solemn feet I tread the hill,

       That overbrows the lonely vale.

      O'er

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