A collection of poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. He was a famous and extremely popular American poet, was born on February 27, 1807. His birthplace was in the New England city of Portland; he refers to the city in one of his poems as
"the beautiful town that is seated by the sea." After he grew up, he lived at
Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he was a professor at
Harvard University.
He died on March 24, 1882. During his life of seventy-five years, Longfellow was loved by everybody, especially the children. Many of his poems are about them.
The Song Of The Potter
Poet: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn round and round,
Without a pause, without a sound:
So spins the flying world away!
This clay, well mixed with marl and sand,
Follows the motion of my hand;
For some must follow, and some command,
Though all are made of clay!
Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must change
To something new, to something strange;
Nothing that is can pause or stay;
The moon will wax, the moon will wane,
The mist and cloud will turn to rain,
The rain to mist and cloud again,
To-morrow be to-day.
Turn, turn, my wheel! All life is brief;
What now is bud will soon be leaf,
What now is leaf will soon decay;
The wind blows east, the wind blows west;
The blue eggs in the robin's nest
Will soon have wings and beak and breast,
And flutter and fly away.
Turn, turn, my wheel! This earthen jar
A touch can make, a touch can mar;
And shall it to the Potter say,
What makest thou? Thou hast no hand?
As men who think to understand
A world by their Creator planned,
Who wiser is than they.
Turn, turn, my wheel! 'Tis nature's plan
The child should grow into the man,
The man grow wrinkled, old, and gray;
In youth the heart exults and sings,
The pulses leap, the feet have wings;
In age the cricket chirps, and brings
The harvest home of day.
Turn, turn, my wheel! The human race,
Of every tongue, of every place,
Caucasian, Coptic, or Malay,
All that inhabit this great earth,
Whatever be their rank or worth,
Are kindred and allied by birth,
And made of the same clay.
Turn, turn, my wheel! What is begun
At daybreak must at dark be done,
To-morrow will be another day;
To-morrow the hot furnace flame
Will search the heart and try the frame,
And stamp with honor or with shame
These vessels made of clay.
Stop, stop, my wheel! Too soon, too soon
The noon will be the afternoon,
Too soon to-day be yesterday;
Behind us in our path we cast
The broken potsherds of the past,
And all are ground to dust at last,
And trodden into clay.
How Beautiful is the Rain
Poet: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!
How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!
The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.
From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Engulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.
In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard’s tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain!
In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand;
Lifting the yoke encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well watered and smoking soil.
For this rest in the furrow after toil
Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man’s spoken word.
Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,
The farmer sees
His pastures, and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.
These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees!
He can behold
Aquarius old
Walking the fenceless fields of air;
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,-
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound,
To the dreary fountainhead
Of lakes and rivers under ground;
And sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.
Thus the Seer,
With vision clear,
Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
Mysterious change
From birth to death, from death to birth,
From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;
Till glimpses more sublime
Of things, unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning forevermore
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will.
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees.
And catch, in sudden gleams.
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And the islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will.
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
I remember the black wharves and the slips
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will.
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
I remember the bulwarks by the shore.
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar.
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er.
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
'A boy's will is the wind's win.
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
I remember the sea-fight far away.
How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
I can see the breezy dome of groves
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the voice of that sweet old song
It flutters and murmurs still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will.
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart.
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will.
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak.
And bring a pallor into the cheek.
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
'A boy's will is the wind's will.
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet.
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street.
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song.
Are sighing and whispering still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair.
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there.
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song.
The groves are repeating it still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will.
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
Verse from The Village Blacksmith
Poet: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
