Like other Fireside poets, Longfellow tailored both kinds of verse to an audience that, he envisioned, would read them aloud in front of the family hearth. They stressed home, family, romantic love, dutiful children, quiet acceptance of suffering and death, and the appreciation of nature, God, and country. He wrote in traditional metrical patterns that would be easy for his readers to follow. He selected a solemn, sometimes archaic, diction that might add a devotional tone to the after-dinner recitations.
What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! 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.
Be a hero in the strife! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living present! Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow WHEN the summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow, Once again the fields we mow And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers Is this harvesting of ours; Not the upland clover bloom; But the rowan mixed with weeds, Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds In the silence and the gloom. 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.
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds The ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain, The vessel in its strength: For I can weather the roughest gale, That ever wind did blow.
I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be? I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be? I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be? Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf, On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a weary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozed on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow!Song of Hiawatha HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW By the shores of Gitche Gumee, by the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. The Political Journey of Kevin Rudd (Quarterly Essay #38)How to Power Tune Rover V8 Engines for Road and Track - Poetry and Notes to Myself: My Ups and Downs with.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (born February 27, – died March 24, ) was an American poet of the Romantic period.
He served as a professor at Harvard University and was an adept linguist, traveling throughout Europe and immersing himself in European culture .
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