Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Всі вірші поета

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Chaucer

An old man in a lodge within a park;

The chamber walls depicted all around

With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,

And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,

Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark

Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;

He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,

Then writeth in a book like any clerk.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Old Clock on the Stairs

Somewhat back from the village street

Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.

Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;

And from its station in the hall

An ancient timepiece says to all, —

"Forever — never!

Never — forever!"

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Bridge

I stood on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour,

And the moon rose o'er the city,

Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection

In the waters under me,

Like a golden goblet falling

And sinking into the sea.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In The Harbour: Memories

Oft I remember those I have known

In other days, to whom my heart was lead

As by a magnet, and who are not dead,

But absent, and their memories overgrown

With other thoughts and troubles of my own,

As graves with grasses are, and at their head

The stone with moss and lichens so o'er spread,

Nothing is legible but the name alone.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Excelsior

The shades of night were falling fast,

As through an Alpine village passed

A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,

A banner with the strange device,

Excelsior

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,

And like a silver clarion rung

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Nuremberg

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands

Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,

Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng:

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold,

Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme,

That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

By The Seaside : The Fire Of Driftwood

We sat within the farm-house old,

Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,

Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold,

An easy entrance, night and day.

Not far away we saw the port,

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,

The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,

The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Courtship Of Miles Standish

I. MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims

To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,

Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,

Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.

Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing

Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,

Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, —

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Flower-De-Luce: 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

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Mezzo Cammin

Half of my life is gone, and I have let

The years slip from me and have not fulfilled

The aspiration of my youth, to build

Some tower of song with lofty parapet.

Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret

Of restless passions that would not be stilled,

But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,

Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Poets

O ye dead Poets, who are living still

Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,

And ye, O living Poets, who are dead

Though ye are living, if neglect can kill,

Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill,

With drops of anguish falling fast and red

From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head

Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill?

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Flower-De-Luce: Divina Commedia

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door

A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,

Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet

Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor

Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;

Far off the noises of the world retreat;

The loud vociferations of the street

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow