The Home Life of Henry W. Longfellow: Reminiscences of Many Visits at Cambridge and Nahant, During the Years 1880, 1881, and 1882

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Carleton, 1882 - Cambridge (Mass.) - 248 pages

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Page 169 - The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. 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, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
Page 223 - TAKE them, O Death ! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own ! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone ! Take them, O Grave ! and let them lie Folded upon thy narrow shelves, As garments by the soul laid by, And precious only to ourselves ! Take them, O great Eternity ! Our little life is but a gust, That bends the branches of thy tree, And trails its blossoms in the dust ' HYMN FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION.
Page 62 - He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
Page 199 - 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.
Page 124 - So high in thoughts as I. You left a kiss Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep From you for ever; I did hear you talk, Far above singing. After you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched What stirred it so: alas, I found it love!
Page 199 - THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted...
Page 35 - Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!
Page 33 - Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — "Forever — never! Never — forever!
Page 137 - Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear.
Page 226 - Were a star quenched on high, For ages would its light, Still travelling downward from the sky, Shine on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men.

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