Woods in Winter / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

from Earlier Poems

Woods in Winter

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 the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.

~~
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
from Voices of the Night, 1839

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow biography

"Woods in Winter" read by Ghizela Rowe.

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year

Yes, the Year is growing old,
    And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
    Plucks the old man by the beard,
        Sorely,— sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,
    Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
    It is a sound of woe,
        A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain-passes
    The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
    Singing: Pray for this poor soul,
        Pray,— pray!

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
    Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;—
    But their prayers are all in vain,
        All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather,
    The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,
    Like weak, despised Lear,
        A king,— a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,
    Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last! O, the old man gray
    Loveth that ever-soft voice,
        Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,
    And 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!

~~
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
from Voices of the Night, 1839

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow biography

"Midnight Mass for the Dying Year" read by Brad Craft. Courtesy usedbuyer.

See also: The Death of the Old Year / Affred Tannyson

Autumn / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Autumn

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.

~~
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
from Voices of the Night, 1839

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow biography

Paul VanDerWerf, Autumn Scene, October 2017 (detail). CC BY 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

Haunted Houses / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Haunted Houses

All houses wherein men have lived and died
    Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
    With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
    Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
    A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
    Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
    As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
    The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
    All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
    Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
    And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
    Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
    A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
    By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
    And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
    Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
    An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
    Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
    Into the realm of mystery and night,—

So from the world of spirits there descends
    A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
    Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

~~

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

from The Courtship of Miles Standish, and other poems, 1858

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

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It Is Not Always May / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It Is Not Always May

No hay pájaros en los nidos de antaño. 

                                – Spanish proverb

The sun is bright,the air is clear,
    The darting swallows soar and sing,
And from the stately elms I hear
    The blue-bird prophesying Spring.

So blue yon 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 O! 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!

~~
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
from Ballads, and other poems, 1842

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow biography

The Harvest Moon / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Harvest Moon

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
     And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
     And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
     And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
     Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
     Of Nature have their image in the mind,
     As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer’s close,
     Only the empty nests are left behind,
     And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

~~
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
from Keramos, and other poems, 1878

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow biography

Snow-flakes / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Snow-flakes

Out of the bosom of the air,
      Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
            Silent, and soft, and slow
            Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
      Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
      In the white countenance confession,
            The troubled sky reveals
            The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
      Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
      Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
            Now whispered and revealed
            To wood and field.

~~

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

from Tales of a Wayside Inn, 1863

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

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Afternoon in February / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Afternoon in February

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o'er the plain;

While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.

The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;

Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.

~~
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
from The Belfry of Bruges, and other poems, 1845

[Poem is in the public domain]

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow biography

Christmas Bells / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

       
Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
      And wild and sweet
      The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
      Had rolled along
      The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
      A voice, a chime,
      A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
      And with the sound
      The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
      And made forlorn
      The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
      ‘For hate is strong,
      And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
      The Wrong shall fail,
      The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!’

---
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) 
Christmas 1864
from Household Poems, 1865

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow biography