Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (–). Complete Poetical They pass away. Our lives are rivers, gliding free, 25 Thither the brook pursues its way,. And tinkling rill. We reach the goal. When, in the .. He stood, in his high dignity. Project Gutenberg's The Golden Legend, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no . A thousand different odors meet . Saying to him, as he stood undaunted, We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river cool the sound of the brook by our side!. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. – Maidenhood As the braided streamlets run! Standing, with reluctant feet,. Where the brook and river meet.
Thrice they wrestled there together In the glory of the sunset, Till the darkness fell around them, Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, From her haunts among the fen-lands, Uttered her loud cry of famine, And Mondamin paused to listen. Tall and beautiful he stood there, In his garments green and yellow; To and fro his plumes above him Waved and nodded with his breathing, And the sweat of the encounter Stood like drops of dew upon him.
The Song of Hiawatha / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Bravely have you wrestled with me, Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me, And the Master of Life, who sees us, He will give to you the triumph! He meanwhile sat weary waiting For the coming of Mondamin, Till the shadows, pointing eastward, Lengthened over field and forest, Till the sun dropped from the heaven, Floating on the waters westward, As a red leaf in the Autumn Falls and floats upon the water, Falls and sinks into its bosom.
And as one in slumber walking, Pale and haggard, but undaunted, From the wigwam Hiawatha Came and wrestled with Mondamin. Round about him spun the landscape, Sky and forest reeled together, And his strong heart leaped within him, As the sturgeon leaps and struggles In a net to break its meshes.
Like a ring of fire around him Blazed and flared the red horizon, And a hundred suns seemed looking At the combat of the wrestlers. Suddenly upon the greensward Panting with his wild exertion, Palpitating with the struggle; And before him, breathless, lifeless, Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, Plumage torn, and garments tattered, Dead he lay there in the sunset.
And victorious Hiawatha Made the grave as he commanded, Stripped the garments from Mondamin, Stripped his tattered plumage from him, Laid him in the earth, and made it Soft and loose and light above him; And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, From the melancholy moorlands, Gave a cry of lamentation, Gave a cry of pain and anguish! Homeward then went Hiawatha To the lodge of old Nokomis, And the seven days of his fasting Were accomplished and completed.
But the place was not forgotten Where he wrestled with Mondamin; Nor forgotten nor neglected Was the grave where lay Mondamin, Sleeping in the rain and sunshine, Where his scattered plumes and garments Faded in the rain and sunshine.
Day by day did Hiawatha Go to wait and watch beside it; Kept the dark mould soft above it, Kept it clean from weeds and insects, Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, Kahgahgee, the king of ravens.
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin! And still later, when the Autumn Changed the long, green leaves to yellow, And the soft and juicy kernels Grew like wampum hard and yellow, Then the ripened ears he gathered, Stripped the withered husks from off them, As he once had stripped the wrestler, Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, And made known unto the people This new gift of the Great Spirit.
Two good friends had Hiawatha, Singled out from all the others, Bound to him in closest union, And to whom he gave the right hand Of his heart, in joy and sorrow; Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind.
Most beloved by Hiawatha He the best of all musicians, He the sweetest of all singers. Beautiful and childlike was he, Brave as man is, soft as woman, Pliant as a wand of willow, Stately as a deer with antlers.
When he sang, the village listened; All the warriors gathered round him, All the women came to hear him; Now he stirred their souls to passion, Now he melted them to pity. From the hollow reeds he fashioned Flutes so musical and mellow, That the brook, the Sebowisha, Ceased to murmur in the woodland, That the wood-birds ceased from singing, And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, And the rabbit, the Wabasso, Sat upright to look and listen.
Very dear to Hiawatha He the best of all musicians, He the sweetest of all singers; For his gentleness he loved him, And the magic of his singing.
Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. 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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Alike were they free from Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows; But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners; There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
Part I, section 1. When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. Part I, section 3. Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
Part II, section 1. Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. Part II, section 5. We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done. Ah, how wonderful is the advent of spring!
If spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change!
But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity. To most men only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous and the perpetual exercise of God's power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Wikiquote
I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it. I stand in awe of my own opinion. The secret demerits of which we alone, perhaps, are conscious, are often more difficult to bear than those which have been publicly censured in us, and thus in some degree atoned for. Give what you have.
To someone, it may be better than you dare to think. Build me straight, O worthy Master!Zac Brown Band - Colder Weather (Official Music Video)
Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle! For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every Art. She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms! Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be!
For gentleness and love and trust Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives. And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives. Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee,—are all with thee! All your strength is in your unionAll your danger is in discord; Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together.
As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman… All your strength is in your unionAll your danger is in discord; Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together. I, The Peace-Pipe, st. From the water-fall he named her, Minnehaha, Laughing Water. IV, Hiawatha and Mudjekeewis, st. Big words do not smite like war-clubs, Boastful breath is not a bow-string, Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, Deeds are better things than words are, Actions mightier than boastings.
As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman; Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him, yet she follows, Useless each without the other! X, Hiawatha's Wooing, st. Oh the long and dreary Winter!
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Oh the cold and cruel Winter! First published in the Blue and Gold edition of Drift-Wood Divine madness enters more or less into all our noblest undertakings. We can hardly wonder that there should be so many resemblances and coincidences of expression among poetsbut rather that they are not more numerous and more striking. Don Quixote thought he could have made beautiful bird-cages and toothpicks if his brain had not been so full of ideas of chivalry.
Most people would succeed in small things, if they were not troubled with great ambitions. A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child. Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work, rather than its defects.
The passions of men have made it malignant, as the bad heart of Procrustes turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture. We often excuse our own want of philanthropy by giving the name of fanaticism to the more ardent zeal of others.
Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, — but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite. If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so change of studies a dull brain. The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them.
Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable. The elements have no forbearance. The fire burns, the water drowns, the air consumes, the earth buries.