"THE DAY IS DONE" THE day is done, and the darkness I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, Such songs have power to quiet Then read from the treasured volume And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882] THE BRIDGE I STOOD On the bridge at midnight, I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean As, sweeping and eddying through them, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing A flood of thoughts came o'er me How often, oh, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, oh, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, But now it has fallen from me, Yet whenever I cross the river And I think how many thousands Each bearing his burden of sorrow, I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow! And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, The moon and its broken reflection As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882] "MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE" My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray; My life is like the prints, which feet All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea,— But none, alas! shall mourn for me! Richard Henry Wilde [1789-1847] "As I Laye A-thynkynge" "AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE" As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, With his hauberke shynynge brighte, Free and gaye; As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne, And a steed with broken rein Ran free, As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see! As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And a gentil youthe was nyghe, And a vowe; 3161 As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, "That I was borne!" As I laye a-thynkynge, she perishèd forlorne. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And his face was meek and mild, Yet joyously he smiled On his sire; As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire. |