William Blake

William Blake (28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827) was an English poet, painter, and printmaker. Largely unrecognized during his lifetime, Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age. What he called his prophetic works were said by 20th-century critic Northrop Frye to form "what is in proportion to its merits the least read body of poetry in the English language". His visual artistry led 21st-century critic Jonathan Jones to proclaim him "far and away the greatest artist Britain has ever produced". In 2002, Blake was placed at number 38 in the BBC's poll of the 100 Greatest Britons.[4] While he lived in London his entire life, except for three years spent in Felpham, he produced a diverse and symbolically rich œuvre, which embraced the imagination as "the body of God"[6] or "human existence itself". Although Blake was considered mad by contemporaries for his idiosyncratic views, he is held in high regard by later critics for his expressiveness and creativity, and for the philosophical and mystical undercurrents within his work. His paintings and poetry have been characterized as part of the Romantic Movement and as "Pre-Romantic". A committed Christian who was hostile to the Church of England (indeed, to almost all forms of organized religion), Blake was influenced by the ideals and ambitions of the French and American Revolutions. Though later he rejected many of these political beliefs, he maintained an amiable relationship with the political activist Thomas Paine; he was also influenced by thinkers such as Emanuel Swedenborg. Despite these known influences, the singularity of Blake's work makes him difficult to classify. The 19th-century scholar William Michael Rossetti characterized him as a "glorious luminary", and "a man not forestalled by predecessors, nor to be classed with contemporaries, nor to be replaced by known or readily surmisable successors.

01

Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:

'Pipe a song about a Lamb!' So I piped with merry cheer. 'Piper, pipe that song again.' So I piped: he wept to hear.

'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!' So I sung the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read.' So he vanished from my sight; And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

02 - The Shepherd

How sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot! From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be filled with praise.

For he hears the lambs' innocent call, And he hears the ewes' tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their shepherd is nigh.

03 - The Echoing Green

The sun does arise, And make happy the skies; The merry bells ring To welcome the Spring; The skylark and thrush, The birds of the bush, Sing louder around To the bells' cheerful sound; While our sports shall be seen On the echoing green.

Old John, with white hair, Does laugh away care, Sitting under the oak, Among the old folk. They laugh at our play, And soon they all say, 'Such, such were the joys When we all -- girls and boys -- In our youth-time were seen On the echoing green.'

Till the little ones, weary, No more can be merry: The sun does descend, And our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mothers Many sisters and brothers, Like birds in their nest, Are ready for rest, And sport no more seen On the darkening green.

04 - The Lamb

Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bid thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee: He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild, He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee!

05 - The Little Black Boy

My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say:

'Look on the rising sun: there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away, And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

'And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

'For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."' Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.

06 - The Blossom

Merry, merry sparrow! Under leaves so green A happy blossom Sees you, swift as arrow, Seek your cradle narrow, Near my bosom. Pretty, pretty robin! Under leaves so green A happy blossom Hears you sobbing, sobbing, Pretty, pretty robin, Near my bosom.

07 - The Chimney Sweeper

When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!' So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said, 'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.'

And so he was quiet, and that very night, As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight! -- That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, Were all of them locked up in coffins of black. And by came an angel, who had a bright key, And he opened the coffins, and set them all free; Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind: And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy, He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark, And got with our bags and our brushes to work. Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm: So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

08 - The Little Boy Lost

'Father, father, where are you going? O do not walk so fast! Speak, father, speak to your little boy, Or else I shall be lost.'

The night was dark, no father was there, The child was wet with dew; The mire was deep, and the child did weep, And away the vapour flew.

09 - The Little Boy Found

The little boy lost in the lonely fen, Led by the wandering light, Began to cry, but God, ever nigh, Appeared like his father, in white.

He kissed the child, and by the hand led, And to his mother brought, Who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale, Her little boy weeping sought.

10 - Laughing Song

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green, And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene; When Mary and Susan and Emily With their sweet round mouths sing 'Ha ha he!'

When the painted birds laugh in the shade, Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread: Come live, and be merry, and join with me, To sing the sweet chorus of 'Ha ha he!'

11 - A Cradle Song

Sweet dreams, form a shade O'er my lovely infant's head! Sweet dreams of pleasant streams By happy, silent, moony beams!

Sweet Sleep, with soft down Weave thy brows an infant crown! Sweet Sleep, angel mild, Hover o'er my happy child!

Sweet smiles, in the night Hover over my delight! Sweet smiles, mother's smiles, All the livelong night beguiles.

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs, Chase not slumber from thy eyes! Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, All the dovelike moans beguiles.

Sleep, sleep, happy child! All creation slept and smiled. Sleep, sleep, happy sleep, While o'er thee thy mother weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face Holy image I can trace; Sweet babe, once like thee Thy Maker lay, and wept for me:

Wept for me, for thee, for all, When He was an infant small. Thou His image ever see, Heavenly face that smiles on thee!

Smiles on thee, on me, on all, Who became an infant small; Infant smiles are His own smiles; Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.

12 - The Divine Image

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, All pray in their distress, And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, Is God our Father dear; And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, Is man, His child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart; Pity, a human face; And Love, the human form divine: And Peace the human dress.

Then every man, of every clime, That prays in his distress, Prays to the human form divine: Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must love the human form, In heathen, Turk, or Jew. Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell, There God is dwelling too.

13 - Holy Thursday

'Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green: Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

14 - Night

The sun descending in the West, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower In heaven's high bower, With silent delight, Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight, Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen, they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest Where birds are covered warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm: If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep; Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep. But, if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful, Receive each mild spirit, New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold: And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold: Saying: 'Wrath by His meekness, And, by His health, sickness, Is driven away From our immortal day.

'And now beside thee, bleating lamb, I can lie down and sleep, Or think on Him who bore thy name, Graze after thee, and weep. For, washed in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold, As I guard o'er the fold.'

15 - Spring

Sound the flute! Now it's mute! Birds delight, Day and night, Nightingale, In the dale, Lark in sky, -- Merrily, Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.

Little boy, Full of joy; Little girl, Sweet and small; Cock does crow, So do you; Merry voice, Infant noise; Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.

Little lamb, Here I am; Come and lick My white neck; Let me pull Your soft wool; Let me kiss Your soft face; Merrily, merrily we welcome in the year.

16 - Nurses' Song

When voices of children are heard on the green, And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still. 'Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away, Till the morning appears in the skies.'

'No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep; Besides, in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all covered with sheep.' 'Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed.' The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed, And all the hills echoed. 17 - Infant Joy

'I have no name; I am but two days old.' What shall I call thee? 'I happy am, Joy is my name.' Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy! Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee: Thou dost smile, I sing the while; Sweet joy befall thee!

18 - A Dream

Once a dream did weave a shade O'er my angel-guarded bed, That an emmet lost its way Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, wildered, and forlorn, Dark, benighted, travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke, I heard her say:

'O my children! do they cry, Do they hear their father sigh? Now they look abroad to see, Now return and weep for me.'

Pitying, I dropped a tear: But I saw a glow-worm near, Who replied, 'What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night?'

'I am set to light the ground, While the beetle goes his round: Follow now the beetle's hum; Little wanderer, hie thee home!'

19 - On Another's Sorrow

Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care, Hear the woes that infants bear -

And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast, And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? O no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all: He becomes an infant small, He becomes a man of woe, He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, And thy Maker is not by: Think not thou canst weep a tear, And thy Maker is not near. O He gives to us His joy, That our grief He may destroy: Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan.

20 - from Songs of Experience

Hear the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and future, sees; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word That walked among the ancient trees;

Calling the lapsed soul, And weeping in the evening dew; That might control The starry pole, And fallen, fallen light renew!

'O Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass! Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumbrous mass.

'Turn away no more; Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor, The watery shore, Is given thee till the break of day.'

21 - Earth's Answer

Earth raised up her head From the darkness dread and drear, Her light fled, Stony, dread, And her locks covered with grey despair.

'Prisoned on watery shore, Starry jealousy does keep my den Cold and hoar; Weeping o'er, I hear the father of the ancient men.

'Selfish father of men! Cruel, jealous, selfish fear! Can delight, Chained in night, The virgins of youth and morning bear.

'Does spring hide its joy, When buds and blossoms grow? Does the sower Sow by night, Or the ploughman in darkness plough?

'Break this heavy chain, That does freeze my bones around! Selfish, vain, Eternal bane, That free love with bondage bound.'

22 - The Clod and the Pebble

'Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease, And builds a heaven in hell's despair.'

So sung a little clod of clay, Trodden with the cattle's feet, But a pebble of the brook Warbled out these metres meet:

'Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a hell in heaven's despite.'

23 - The Fly

Little Fly, Thy summer's play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away.

Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me?

For I dance, And drink, and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life And strength and breath, And the want Of thought is death;

Then am I A happy fly. If I live, Or if I die.

24 - The Tyger

Tyger, tyger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

25 - My Pretty Rose Tree

A flower was offered to me, Such a flower as May never bore; But I said, 'I've a pretty rose tree,' And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree, To tend her by day and by night; But my rose turned away with jealousy, And her thorns were my only delight.

26 - The Lily

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble sheep a threat'ning horn: While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

27 - A Cradle Song

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel, Smiles as of the morning steal O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast Where thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep! When thy little heart doth wake, Then the dreadful light shall break.

From thy cheeck and from thy eye O'er the youthful harvest nigh Infant wiles and infant smiles Heaven and Earth of peace beguiles.

28 - The Schoolboy

I love to rise in a summer morn, When the birds sing on every tree; The distant huntsman winds his horn, And the skylark sings with me: O what sweet company!

But to go to school in a summer morn, -- O it drives all joy away! Under a cruel eye outworn, The little ones spend the day In sighing and dismay. Ah then at times I drooping sit, And spend many an anxious hour; Nor in my book can I take delight, Nor sit in learning's bower, Worn through with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring!

O father and mother if buds are nipped, And blossoms blown away; And if the tender plants are stripped Of their joy in the springing day, By sorrow and care's dismay, --

How shall the summer arise in joy, Or the summer fruits appear? Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, Or bless the mellowing year, When the blasts of winter appear?

29 - Eternity

He who binds to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy; But he who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity's sun rise.

30 - From Augeries of Innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all Heaven in a rage. A dove house fill'd with doves and pigeons Shudders Hell thro' all its regions. A dog starv'd at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state. A horse misus'd upon the road Calls to Heaven for human blood.

Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear. A skylark wounded in the wing, A Cherubim does cease to sing.

The game cock clipp'd and arm'd for fight Does the rising Sun affright. Every wolf's and lion's howl Raises from Hell a human soul.

He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over Hell and Death. The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly, Shall never know how to reply. He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of Knowledge out.

31- Degrade first the Arts if you'd Mankind Degrade. Hire Idiots to Paint with cold light and hot shade: Give high Price for the worst, leave the best in disgrace, And with Labours of Ignorance fill every place.

32 - from The Two Songs

I heard an Angel Singing When the day was springing: "Mercy, pity, and peace, Are the world's release."

So he sang all day Over the new-mown hay, Till the sun went down, And the haycocks looked brown.

33 - The Wild flowers Song

As I wanderd the forest The green leaves among I heard a wild flower Singing a Song

I slept in the earth in the silent night I murmurd my fears And I felt delight

In the morning I went As rosy as morn To seek for new Joy But I met with scorn

34 - The Fairy

Come hither my sparrows My little arrows If a tear or a smile Will a man beguile If an amorous delay Clouds a sunshiny day If the step of a foot Smites the heart to its root Tis the marriage ring Makes each fairy a king.

So a fairy sung From the leaves I sprung He leapd from the spray To flee away But in my hat caught He soon shall be taught Let him laugh let him cry He's my butterfly For I've pull'd out the Sting Of the marriage ring.

35 - To Spring

O thou, with dewy locks, who lookest down Thro' the clear windows of the morning; turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell each other, and the list'ning Vallies hear; all our longing eyes are turned Up to thy bright pavillions: issue forth, And let thy holy feet visit our clime.

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee!

36 - To Summer

O thou, who passest thro' our vallies in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs Sit down, and in our mossy vallies, on Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream: Our vallies love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire: Our youth are bolder than the southern swains: Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance: We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy, Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

37 - To Autumn

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof, there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe; And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

"The narrow bud opens her beauties to "The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; "Blossoms hang round the brows of morning, and "Flourish down the bright cheek of modest eve, "Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing, "And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

"The spirits of the air live on the smells "Of fruit; and joy, with pinions light, roves round "The gardens, or sits singing in the trees." Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat, Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

38 - To Winter

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.

He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd; sheathed In ribbed steel, I dare not lift mine eyes; For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.

Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: He withers all in silence, and his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.

He takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that deal'st With storms; till heaven smiles, and the monster Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.

39 - To The Evening Star

Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening, Now, while the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed! Smile on our loves; and, while thou drawest the Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon, Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, And the lion glares thro' the dun forest: The fleeces of our flocks are cover'd with Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.

40 - To Morning

O holy virgin! clad in purest white, Unlock heav'n's golden gates, and issue forth; Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring The honied dew that cometh on waking day.

O radiant morning, salute the sun, Rouz'd like a huntsman to the chace; and, with Thy buskin'd feet, appear upon our hills.

Sara Teasdale

Teasdale was born on August 8, 1884. She had poor health for much of her childhood, so she was home schooled until age 9. It was at age 10 that she was well enough to begin school. She started at Mary Institute in 1898, but switched to Hosmer Hall in 1899, graduating in 1903. The Teasdale family lived at 3668 Lindell Blvd. and then 38 Kingsbury Place in St. Louis, Missouri. Both homes were designed by Sara's mother. The house on Kingsbury Place had a private suite for Sara on the second floor. Guests entered through a separate entrance and were admitted by appointment. This suite is where Sara worked, slept, and often dined alone Teasdale's first poem was published in William Marion Reedy's Reedy's Mirror, a local newspaper, in 1907. Her first collection of poems, Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems, was published that same year. From 1911 to 1914 Teasdale was courted by several men, including the poet Vachel Lindsay, who was truly in love with her but did not feel that he could provide enough money or stability to keep her satisfied. She chose to marry Ernst Filsinger, a longtime admirer of her poetry, on December 19, 1914. Teasdale's third poetry collection, Rivers to the Sea, was published in 1915. It was and is a bestseller, being reprinted several times. In 1916 she and Filsinger moved to New York City, where they lived in an Upper West Side apartment on Central Park West. In 1918 she won a Pulitzer Prize for her 1917 poetry collection Love Songs. It was "made possible by a special grant from The Poetry Society"; however, the sponsoring organization now lists it as the earliest Pulitzer Prize for Poetry (inaugurated 1922). Filsinger's constant business travel caused Teasdale much loneliness. In 1929, she moved interstate for three months, thereby satisfying the criteria to gain a divorce. She did not wish to inform Filsinger, only doing so at her lawyers' insistence as the divorce was going through. Filsinger was shocked. After the divorce she moved only two blocks from her old home on Central Park West. She rekindled her friendship with Vachel Lindsay, who was now married with children. In 1933, she died by suicide, overdosing on sleeping pills.[7] Lindsay had died by suicide two years earlier. She is interred in Bellefontaine Cemetery in St. Louis.

01. The Love that Goes A-begging (from Sonnets to Duse, 1907)

Oh Loves there are that enter in, And Loves there are that wait, And Loves that sit a-weeping Whose joy will come too late.

For some there be that ope their doors, And some there be that close, And Love must go a-begging, But whither, no one knows.

02. Wishes (from Sonnets to Duse, 1907)

I wish for such a lot of things That never will come true-- And yet I want them all so much I think they might, don't you?

I want a little kitty-cat That's soft and tame and sweet, And every day I watch and hope I'll find one in the street.

But nursie says, "Come, walk along, "Don't stand and stare like that"-- I'm only looking hard and hard To try to find my cat.

And then I want a blue balloon That tries to fly away, I thought if I wished hard enough That it would come some day.

One time when I was in the park I knew that it would be Beside the big old clock at home A-waiting there for me--

And soon as we got home again, I hurried thro' the hall, And looked beside the big old clock-- It wasn't there at all.

I think I'll never wish again-- But then, what shall I do? The wishes are a lot of fun Altho' they don't come true.

03. Dusk in Autumn (from Sonnets to Duse, 1907)

The moon is like a scimitar, A little silver scimitar, A-drifting down the sky. And near beside it is a star, A timid twinkling golden star, That watches like an eye.

And thro' the nursery window-pane The witches have a fire again, Just like the ones we make,-- And now I know they're having tea, I wish they'd give a cup to me, With witches' currant cake.

04. Dream Song (from Sonnets to Duse, 1907)

I plucked a snow-drop in the spring, And in my hand too closely pressed; The warmth had hurt the tender thing, I grieved to see it withering.

I gave my love a poppy red, And laid it on her snow-cold breast; But poppies need a warmer bed, We wept to find the flower was dead.

05. Faults (from Sonnets to Duse, 1907)

They came to tell your faults to me, They named them over one by one, I laughed aloud when they were done; I knew them all so well before,-- Oh they were blind, too blind to see Your faults had made me love you more.

06. Snow Song (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

Fairy snow, fairy snow, Blowing, blowing everywhere, Would that I Too, could fly Lightly, lightly through the air.

07. November (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

The world is tired, the year is old, The little leaves are glad to die, The wind goes shivering with cold Among the rushes dry.

08. A Winter Night (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

My window-pane is starred with frost, The world is bitter cold to-night, The moon is cruel and the wind Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the homeless ones, The beggars pacing to and fro. God pity all the poor to-night Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.

09. Dawn (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

The greenish sky glows up in misty reds, The purple shadows turn to brick and stone, The dreams wear thin, men turn upon their beds, And hear the milk-cart jangle by alone.

10. Dusk (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

The city's street, a roaring blackened stream Walled in by granite, thro' whose thousand eyes A thousand yellow lights begin to gleam, And over all the pale untroubled skies.

11. Rain at Night (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

The street-lamps shine in a yellow line Down the splashy, gleaming street, And the rain is heard now loud now blurred By the tread of homing feet.

12. A Ballad of Two Knights (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

Two knights rode forth at early dawn A-seeking maids to wed, Said one, "My lady must be fair, With gold hair on her head."

Then spake the other knight-at-arms: "I care not for her face, But she I love must be a dove For purity and grace." 13. The Faery Forest (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

The faery forest glimmered Beneath an ivory moon, The silver grasses shimmered Against a faery tune.

Beneath the silken silence The crystal branches slept, And dreaming thro' the dew-fall The cold white blossoms wept.

14. A Minuet of Mozart's (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

Across the dimly lighted room The violin drew wefts of sound, Airily they wove and wound And glimmered gold against the gloom.

I watched the music turn to light, But at the pausing of the bow, The web was broken and the glow Was drowned within the wave of night.

15. Twilight (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

Dreamily over the roofs The cold spring rain is falling, Out in the lonely tree A bird is calling, calling.

Slowly over the earth The wings of night are falling; My heart like the bird in the tree Is calling, calling, calling.

16. Grandfather's Love (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

They said he sent his love to me, They wouldn't put it in my hand, And when I asked them where it was They said I couldn't understand.

I thought they must have hidden it, I hunted for it all the day, And when I told them so at night They smiled and turned their heads away.

They say that love is something kind, That I can never see or touch. I wish he'd sent me something else, I like his cough-drops twice as much.

17. The Kind Moon (from Helen of Troy And Other Poems, 1911)

I think the moon is very kind To take such trouble just for me. He came along with me from home To keep me company.

He went as fast as I could run; I wonder how he crossed the sky? I'm sure he hasn't legs and feet Or any wings to fly.

Yet here he is above their roof; Perhaps he thinks it isn't right For me to go so far alone, Tho' mother said I might.

18. Spring Night (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

The park is filled with night and fog, The veils are drawn about the world, The drowsy lights along the paths Are dim and pearled.

Gold and gleaming the empty streets, Gold and gleaming the misty lake, The mirrored lights like sunken swords, Glimmer and shake.

Oh, is it not enough to be Here with this beauty over me? My throat should ache with praise, and I Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. Oh, beauty are you not enough?

19. April (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

The roofs are shining from the rain, The sparrows twitter as they fly, And with a windy April grace The little clouds go by.

Yet the back yards are bare and brown With only one unchanging tree- I could not be so sure of Spring Save that it sings in me.

20. A Winter Blue Jay (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

Crisply the bright snow whispered, Crunching beneath our feet; Behind us as we walked along the parkway, Our shadows danced, Fantastic shapes in vivid blue. Across the lake the skaters Flew to and fro, With sharp turns weaving A frail invisible net. In ecstasy the earth Drank the silver sunlight; In ecstasy the skaters Drank the wine of speed; In ecstasy we laughed Drinking the wine of love. Had not the music of our joy Sounded its highest note? But no,

For suddenly, with lifted eyes you said, "Oh look!" There, on the black bough of a snow flecked maple, Fearless and gay as our love, A bluejay cocked his crest! Oh who can tell the range of joy Or set the bounds of beauty?

21. In the Train (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

Fields beneath a quilt of snow From which the rocks and stubble sleep, And in the west a shy white star That shivers as it wakes from deep.

The restless rumble of the train, The drowsy people in the car, Steel blue twilight in the world, And in my heart a timid star.

22. Morning (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

I went out on an April morning All alone, for my heart was high, I was a child of the shining meadow, I was a sister of the sky.

There in the windy flood of morning Longing lifted its weight from me, Lost as a sob in the midst of cheering, Swept as a sea-bird out to sea.

23. May Night (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

The spring is fresh and fearless And every leaf is new, The world is brimmed with moonlight, The lilac brimmed with dew.

Here in the moving shadows I catch my breath and sing My heart is fresh and fearless And over-brimmed with spring.

24. Dusk in June (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

Evening, and all the birds In a chorus of shimmering sound Are easing their hearts of joy For miles around.

The air is blue and sweet, The few first stars are white, Oh let me like the birds Sing before night.

25. The Sea Wind (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

I am a pool in a peaceful place, I greet the great sky face to face, I know the stars and the stately moon And the wind that runs with rippling shoon But why does it always bring to me The far-off, beautiful sound of the sea?

The marsh-grass weaves me a wall of green, But the wind comes whispering in between, In the dead of night when the sky is deep The wind comes waking me out of sleep Why does it always bring to me The far-off, terrible call of the sea?

26. The Cloud (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

I am a cloud in the heaven's height, The stars are lit for my delight, Tireless and changeful, swift and free, I cast my shadow on hill and sea But why do the pines on the mountain's crest Call to me always, "Rest, rest"?

I throw my mantle over the moon And I blind the sun on his throne at noon, Nothing can tame me, nothing can bind, I am a child of the heartless wind But oh the pines on the mountain's crest Whispering always, "Rest, rest."

27. The Star (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

A white star born in the evening glow Looked to the round green world below, And saw a pool in a wooded place That held like a jewel her mirrored face. She said to the pool: "Oh, wondrous deep, I love you, I give you my light to keep. Oh, more profound than the moving sea That never has shown myself to me! Oh, fathomless as the sky is far, Hold forever your tremulous star!"

But out of the woods as night grew cool A brown pig came to the little pool; It grunted and splashed and waded in And the deepest place but reached its chin. The water gurgled with tender glee And the mud churned up in it turbidly. The star grew pale and hid her face In a bit of floating cloud like lace.

28. In the Carpenter's Shop (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

Mary sat in the corner dreaming, Dim was the room and low, While in the dusk, the saw went screaming To and fro.

Jesus and Joseph toiled together, Mary was watching them, Thinking of kings in the wintry weather At Bethlehem.

Mary sat in the corner thinking, Jesus had grown a man; One by one her hopes were sinking As the years ran.

Jesus and Joseph toiled together, Mary's thoughts were far Angels sang in the wintry weather Under a star.

Mary sat in the corner weeping, Bitter and hot her tears Little faith were the angels keeping All the years. 29. Swallow Flight (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

I love my hour of wind and light, I love men's faces and their eyes, I love my spirit's veering flight Like swallows under evening skies.

30. Thoughts (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

When I can make my thoughts come forth To walk like ladies up and down, Each one puts on before the glass Her most becoming hat and gown.

But oh, the shy and eager thoughts That hide and will not get them dressed, Why is it that they always seem So much more lovely than the rest?

31. To Dick on his Sixth Birthday (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

Tho' I am very old and wise, And you are neither wise nor old, When I look far into your eyes, I know things I was never told: I know how flame must strain and fret Prisoned in a mortal net; How joy with over-eager wings, Bruises the small heart where he sings; How too much life, like too much gold, Is sometimes very hard to hold .... All that is talking but I know This much is true, six years ago An angel living near the moon Walked thru the sky and sang a tune Plucking stars to make his crown And suddenly two stars fell down, Two falling arrows made of light. Six years ago this very night

I saw them fall and wondered why The angel dropped them from the sky But when I saw your eyes I knew The angel sent the stars to you.

32. To Rose (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

Rose, when I remember you, Little lady, scarcely two, I am suddenly aware Of the angels in the air.

All your softly gracious ways Make an island in my days Where my thoughts fly back to be Sheltered from too strong a sea.

All your luminous delight Shines before me in the night When I grope for sleep and find Only shadows in my mind.

Rose, when I remember you, White and glowing, pink and new, With so swift a sense of fun Altho' life has just begun;

With so sure a pride of place In your very infant face, I should like to make a prayer To the angels in the air: "If an angel ever brings Me a baby in her wings, Please be certain that it grows Very, very much like Rose."

33. Night in Arizona (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

The moon is a charring ember Dying into the dark; Off in the crouching mountains Coyotes bark.

The stars are heavy in heaven, Too great for the sky to hold-- What if they fell and shattered The earth with gold?

No lights are over the mesa, The wind is hard and wild, I stand at the darkened window And cry like a child.

34. Vignettes Overseas: Stresa (from Rivers to the Sea, 1915)

The moon grows out of the hills A yellow flower, The lake is a dreamy bride Who waits her hour.

Beauty has filled my heart, It can hold no more, It is full, as the lake is full, From shore to shore.

35. Barter (from Love Songs, 1917)

Life has loveliness to sell All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be.

36. Stars (from Flame and Shadow, 1920)

Alone in the night On a dark hill With pines around me Spicy and still,

And a heaven full of stars Over my head, White and topaz And a misty red;

Myriads with beating Hearts of fire That aeons Cannot vex or tire;

Up the dome of heaven Like a great hill, I watch them marching Stately and still,

And I know that I Am honored to be Witness Of so much majesty. 37. The Coin (from Flame and Shadow, 1920)

Into my heart's treasury I slipped a coin That time cannot take Nor a thief purloin,-- Oh, better than the minting Of a gold-crowned king Is the safe-kept memory Of a lovely thing.

38. May Day (from Flame and Shadow, 1920)

A delicate fabric of bird song Floats in the air, The smell of wet wild earth Is everywhere.

Red small leaves of the maple Are clenched like a hand, Like girls at their first communion The pear trees stand.

Oh I must pass nothing by Without loving it much, The raindrop try with my lips, The grass with my touch;

For how can I be sure I shall see again The world on the first of May Shining after the rain?

39. Thoughts (from Flame and Shadow, 1920)

When I am all alone Envy me most, Then my thoughts flutter round me In a glimmering host;

Some dressed in silver, Some dressed in white, Each like a taper Blossoming light;

Most of them merry, Some of them grave, Each of them lithe As willows that wave;

Some bearing violets, Some bearing bay, One with a burning rose Hidden away--

When I am all alone Envy me then, For I have better friends Than women and men.

Hilda Conkling

Hilda Conkling (1910–1986) was an American poet. She was the daughter of Grace Hazard Conkling, a poet in her own right and Assistant Professor of English at Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts. Hilda was born in New York state. Her father died when she was four years old, and she had one sister, Elsa, two years her senior. Hilda is notable for having composed most of her poetry as a young child, between the ages of four and ten years old. She never wrote them down herself; instead, they came out in conversation with her mother, who would write down Hilda's words either in the moment, or from memory later. If the latter, she would read the lines back to Hilda, who would then correct any deviation from her original words. As Hilda grew up, her mother stopped recording the poems, and Hilda is not known to have written any herself as an adult. Most of Hilda's poetry is concerned with nature; sometimes simply descriptive, sometimes mixed with elements of fantasy. Other common themes are love for her mother, stories and daydreams, and pictures or books that pleased her. Often these themes intertwine, and she often makes use of metaphor in her descriptions of plants and animals Three collections of Hilda's poetry were published during her life: Poems by a Little Girl (1920, preface by Amy Lowell), Shoes of the Wind (1922), and Silverhorn (1924). Her poems were also included in the anthologies Silver Pennies (1925), and Sing a Song of Popcorn: Every Child's Book of Poems (1988). Prior to her first book, she was published in a number of magazines, including Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, The Delineator, Good Housekeeping, The Lyric, St. Nicholas Magazine, and Contemporary Verse.

1. Moon Song

There is a star that runs very fast,

That goes pulling the moon

Through the tops of the poplars.

It is all in silver,

The tall star:

The moon rolls goldenly along

Out of breath.

Mr. Moon, does he make you hurry?

2. Chickadee

The chickadee in the appletree

Talks all the time very gently.

He makes me sleepy.

I rock away to the sea-lights.

Far off I hear him talking

The way smooth bright pebbles

Drop into water . . .

Chick-a-dee-dee-dee . . . 3. Red Rooster

Red rooster in your gray coop,

O stately creature with tail-feathers red and blue,

Yellow and black,

You have a comb gay as a parade

On your head:

You have pearl trinkets

On your feet:

The short feathers smooth along your back

Are the dark color of wet rocks,

Or the rippled green of ships

When I look at their sides through water.

I don't know how you happened to be made

So proud, so foolish,

Wearing your coat of many colors,

Shouting all day long your crooked words,

Loud . . . sharp . . . not beautiful!

4. Tree Toad

Tree-toad is a small gray person

With a silver voice.

Tree-toad is a leaf-gray shadow

That sings.

Tree-toad is never seen

Unless a star squeezes through the leaves,

Or a moth looks sharply at a gray branch.

How would it be, I wonder,

To sing patiently all night,

Never thinking that people are asleep?

Raindrops and mist, starriness over the trees,

The moon, the dew, the other little singers,

Cricket . . . toad . . . leaf rustling . . .

They would listen:

It would be music like weather

That gets into all the corners

Of out-of-doors.

Every night I see little shadows

I never saw before.

Every night I hear little voices

I never heard before. When night comes trailing her starry cloak,

I start out for slumberland,

With tree-toads calling along the roadside.

Good-night, I say to one, Good-by, I say to another:

I hope to find you on the way

We have traveled before!

I hope to hear you singing on the Road of Dreams!

5. Dandelion

O little soldier with the golden helmet,

What are you guarding on my lawn?

You with your green gun

And your yellow beard,

Why do you stand so stiff?

There is only the grass to fight!

6. Little Snail

I saw a little snail

Come down the garden walk.

He wagged his head this way . . . that way . . .

Like a clown in a circus.

He looked from side to side

As though he were from a different country.

I have always said he carries his house on his back . . .

To-day in the rain

I saw that it was his umbrella!

7. The Old Bridge

The old bridge has a wrinkled face.

He bends his back

For us to go over.

He moans and weeps

But we do not hear.

Sorrow stands in his face

For the heavy weight and worry

Of people passing. The trees drop their leaves into the water;

The sky nods to him.

The leaves float down like small ships

On the blue surface

Which is the sky.

He is not always sad:

He smiles to see the ships go down

And the little children

Playing on the river banks.

8. Gift

This is mint and here are three pinks

I have brought you, Mother.

They are wet with rain

And shining with it.

The pinks smell like more of them

In a blue vase:

The mint smells like summer

In many gardens.

9. I Am

I am willowy boughs

For coolness;

I am gold-finch wings

For darkness;

I am a little grape

Thinking of September,

I am a very small violet

Thinking of May.

10. Spring Song

I love daffodils.

I love Narcissus when he bends his head.

I can hardly keep March and spring and Sunday and daffodils

Out of my rhyme of song.

Do you know anything about the spring

When it comes again?

God knows about it while winter is lasting.

Flowers bring him power in the spring,

And birds bring it, and children. He is sometimes sad and alone

Up there in the sky trying to keep his worlds happy.

I bring him songs

When he is in his sadness, and weary.

I tell him how I used to wander out

To study stars and the moon he made,

And flowers in the dark of the wood.

I keep reminding him about his flowers he has forgotten,

And that snowdrops are up.

What can I say to make him listen?

"God," I say,

"Don't you care!

Nobody must be sad or sorry

In the spring-time of flowers."

11. Water

The world turns softly

Not to spill its lakes and rivers.

The water is held in its arms

And the sky is held in the water.

What is water,

That pours silver,

And can hold the sky?

12. Autumn Song

I made a ring of leaves

On the autumn grass:

I was a fairy queen all day.

Inside the ring, the wind wore sandals

Not to make a noise of going.

The caterpillars, like little snow men,

Had wound themselves in their winter coats.

The hands of the trees were bare

And their fingers fluttered.

I was a queen of yellow leaves and brown, And the redness of my fairy ring

Kept me warm.

For the wind blew near,

Though he made no noise of going,

And I hadn't a close-made wrap

Like the caterpillars.

Even a queen of fairies can be cold

When summer has forgotten and gone!

Keep me warm, red leaves;

Don't let the frost tiptoe into my ring

On the magic grass!

13. Thunder Shower

The dark cloud raged.

Gone was the morning light.

The big drops darted down:

The storm stood tall on the rose-trees:

And the bees that were getting honey

Out of wet roses,

The hiding bees would not come out of the flowers

Into the rain. 14. Purple Asters

It isn't alone the asters

In my garden,

It is the butterflies gleaming

Like crowns of kings and queens!

It isn't alone purple

And blue on the edge of purple,

It is what the sun does,

And the air moving clearly,

The petals moving and the wings,

In my queer little garden!

15. Moon Thought

The moon is thinking of the river

Winding through the mountains far away,

Because she has a river in her heart

Full of the same silver.

16. Sun Flowers

Sun-flowers, stop growing!

If you touch the sky where those clouds are passing

Like tufts of dandelion gone to seed,

The sky will put you out!

You know it is blue like the sea . . .

Maybe it is wet, too!

Your gold faces will be gone forever

If you brush against that blue

Ever so softly!

17. Poplars

The poplars bow forward and back;

They are like a fan waving very softly.

They tremble,

For they love the wind in their feathery branches.

They love to look down at the shallows,

At the mermaids

On the sandy shore;

They love to look into morning's face

Cool in the water. 18. Bluebird

Oh bluebird with light red breast,

And your blue back like a feathered sky,

You have to go down south

Before biting winter comes

And my flower-beds are covered with fluff out of the clouds.

Before you go,

Sing me one more song

Of tree-tops down south,

Of darkies singing their babies to sleep,

Of sand and glittering stones

Where rivers pass;

Then . . . good-by!

19. Snowflake Song

Snowflakes come in fleets

Like ships over the sea.

The moon shines down on the crusty snow:

The stars make the sky sparkle like gold-fish

In a glassy bowl.

Bluebirds are gone now, But they left their song behind them.

The moon seems to say:

It is time for summer when the birds come back

To pick up their lonesome songs.

20. Snowstorm

Snowflakes are dancing.

They run down out of heaven.

Coming home from somewhere down the long tired road

They flake us sometimes

The way they do the grass,

And the stretch of the world.

The grass-blades are crowned with snowflakes.

They make me think of daisies

With white frills around their necks

With golden faces and green gowns;

Poor little daisies,

Tip-toe and shivering

In the cold!

21. Poppy

Oh big red poppy,

You look stern and sturdy,

Yet you bow to the wind

And sing a lullaby . . .

"Sleep, little ones under my breast

In the moonshine . . ."

You make this lullaby,

Sweet, short,

Slow, beautiful,

And you thank the dew for giving you a drink.

22. Clouds

The clouds were gray all day.

At last they departed

And the blue diamonds shone again.

I watched clouds float past and flow back

Like waves across the sea,

Waves that are foamy and soft,

When they hear clouds calling

Mother Sea, send us up your song

Of hushaby! 23. Humming-Bird

Why do you stand on the air

And no sun shining?

How can you hold yourself so still

On raindrops sliding?

They change and fall, they are not steady,

But you do not know they are gone.

Is there a silver wire

I cannot see?

Is the wind your perch?

Raindrops slide down your little shoulders . . .

They do not wet you:

I think you are not real

In your green feathers!

You are not a humming-bird at all

Standing on air above the garden!

I dreamed you the way I dream fairies,

Or the flower I lost yesterday!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (February 27, 1807 – March 24, 1882) was an American poet and educator whose works include "Paul Revere's Ride", The Song of Hiawatha, and Evangeline. He was also the first American to translate Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy and was one of the Fireside Poets from New England. Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine, which was then still part of Massachusetts. He studied at Bowdoin College and became a professor at Bowdoin and later at Harvard College after spending time in Europe. His first major poetry collections were Voices of the Night (1839) and Ballads and Other Poems (1841). He retired from teaching in 1854 to focus on his writing, and he lived the remainder of his life in the Revolutionary War headquarters of George Washington in Cambridge, Massachusetts. His first wife Mary Potter died in 1835 after a miscarriage. His second wife Frances Appleton died in 1861 after sustaining burns when her dress caught fire. After her death, Longfellow had difficulty writing poetry for a time and focused on translating works from foreign languages. He died in 1882. Longfellow wrote many lyric poems known for their musicality and often presenting stories of mythology and legend. He became the most popular American poet of his day and also had success overseas. He has been criticized by some, however, for imitating European styles and writing specifically for the masses.

01 - The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

02 - 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. He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote The Canterbury Tales, and his old age Made beautiful with song; and as I read I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note Of lark and linnet, and from every page Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.

03 - The Children's Hour

Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!

04 - 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 The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior!

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!" A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!" This was the peasant's last Good-night, A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful bound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell like a falling star, Excelsior!

05 - Hymn To The Night

I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, -- From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before! Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night!

06 - The Rainy Day Written at the old home in Portland

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains,and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains,and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

07 - Nature

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

08 - 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.

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust;

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived and labored Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.

Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies; Dead he is not, but departed, -- for the artist never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains.

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime;

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed.

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door;

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long.

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler bard.

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay:

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, The nobility of labor, -- the long pedigree of toil.

09 - A Psalm of Life

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! -- For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, -- act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

10 - Shakespeare

A vision as of crowded city streets, With human life in endless overflow; Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow To battle; clamor, in obscure retreats, Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets; Tolling of bells in turrets, and below Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets! This vision comes to me when I unfold The volume of the Poet paramount, Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone; -- Into his hands they put the lyre of gold, And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount, Placed him as Musagetes on their throne.

11 - Snow-flakes

Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field.

12 - There Was a Little Girl

There was a little girl, Who had a little curl, Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, She was very good indeed, But when she was bad she was horrid.

13 - The Tide Rises

The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveller hastens toward the town, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveller to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

14 - Fata Morgana

O sweet illusions of song That tempt me everywhere, In the lonely fields, and the throng Of the crowded thoroughfare!

I approach and ye vanish away, I grasp you, and ye are gone; But ever by night and by day, The melody soundeth on.

As the weary traveller sees In desert or prairie vast, Blue lakes, overhung with trees That a pleasant shadow cast;

Fair towns with turrets high, And shining roofs of gold, That vanish as he draws nigh, Like mists together rolled -- So I wander and wander along, And forever before me gleams The shining city of song, In the beautiful land of dreams.

But when I would enter the gate Of that golden atmosphere, It is gone, and I wonder and wait For the vision to reappear.

15 - The Castle-Builder (Watch a version of this sung by Lauren Bernofsky on YouTube)

A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks, A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes, A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks, And towers that touch imaginary skies.

A fearless rider on his father's knee, An eager listener unto stories told At the Round Table of the nursery, Of heroes and adventures manifold.

There will be other towers for thee to build; There will be other steeds for thee to ride; There will be other legends, and all filled With greater marvels and more glorified.

Build on, and make thy castles high and fair, Rising and reaching upward to the skies; Listen to voices in the upper air, Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.

16 - The Sound of the Sea

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, And round the pebbly beaches far and wide I heard the first wave of the rising tide Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep; A voice out of the silence of the deep, A sound mysteriously multiplied As of a cataract from the mountain's side, Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep. So comes to us at times, from the unknown And inaccessible solitudes of being, The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul; And inspirations, that we deem our own, Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing Of things beyond our reason or control.

17 - Children

Come to me, O ye children! For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows, That look towards the sun, Where thoughts are singing swallows And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow But in mine is the wind of Autumn And the first fall of snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest, With the light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have been hardened into wood,-

That to the world are children; Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate Then reaches the trunks below.

Come to me, O ye children! And whisper in my ear What the birds and wings are singing In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

18 - Saint Filomena (Florence Nightingale)

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low! Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,--

The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent.

On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past.

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore.

19 - Daybreak

A wind came up out of the sea, And said, "O mists, make room for me."

It hailed the ships and cried, "Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone."

And hurried landward far away, Crying "Awake! it is the day."

It said unto the forest, "Shout! Hang all your leafy banners out!"

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, "O bird, awake and sing."

And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, Your clarion blow; the day is near."

It whispered to the fields of corn, "Bow down, and hail the coming morn."

It shouted through the belfry-tower, "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, "Not yet! In quiet lie."

20 - The Day is Done

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.

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,

For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And tonight I long for rest.

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, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have a power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And comes like the benediction That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

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. 21 - The Secret of the Sea

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me As I gaze upon the sea! All the old romantic legends, All my dreams, come back to me.

Sails of silk and ropes of sandal, Such as gleam in ancient lore; And the singing of the sailors, And the answer from the shore!

Most of all, the Spanish ballad Haunts me oft, and tarries long, Of the noble Count Arnaldos And the sailor's mystic song.

Like the long waves on a sea-beach, Where the sand as silver shines, With a soft, monotonous cadence, Flow its unrhymed lyric lines:--

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, With his hawk upon his hand, Saw a fair and stately galley, Steering onward to the land;--

How he heard the ancient helmsman Chant a song so wild and clear, That the sailing sea-bird slowly Poised upon the mast to hear,

Till his soul was full of longing, And he cried, with impulse strong, -- "Helmsman! for the love of heaven, Teach me, too, that wondrous song!"

"Wouldst thou," -- so the helmsman answered, "Learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery!"

In each sail that skims the horizon, In each landward-blowing breeze, I behold that stately galley, Hear those mournful melodies;

Till my soul is full of longing For the secret of the sea, And the heart of the great ocean Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

22 - The Landlord's Tale (Paul Revere's Ride)

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light, -- One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, -- By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, -- A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled, -- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, -- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

23 - The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! 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.

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.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.

24 - Hiawatha's Childhood

Downward through the evening twilight, In the days that are forgotten, In the unremembered ages, From the full moon fell Nokomis, Fell the beautiful Nokomis, She a wife, but not a mother. She was sporting with her women, Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, When her rival the rejected, Full of jealousy and hatred, Cut the leafy swing asunder, Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, And Nokomis fell affrighted Downward through the evening twilight, On the Muskoday, the meadow, On the prairie full of blossoms. "See! a star falls!" said the people; "From the sky a star is falling!" There among the ferns and mosses, There among the prairie lilies, On the Muskoday, the meadow, In the moonlight and the starlight, Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. And she called her name Wenonah, As the first-born of her daughters. And the daughter of Nokomis Grew up like the prairie lilies, Grew a tall and slender maiden, With the beauty of the moonlight, With the beauty of the starlight. And Nokomis warned her often, Saying oft, and oft repeating, "Oh, beware of Mudjekeewis, Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis; Listen not to what he tells you; Lie not down upon the meadow, Stoop not down among the lilies, Lest the West-Wind come and harm you!" But she heeded not the warning, Heeded not those words of wisdom, And the West-Wind came at evening, Walking lightly o'er the prairie, Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, Bending low the flowers and grasses, Found the beautiful Wenonah, Lying there among the lilies, Wooed her with his words of sweetness, Wooed her with his soft caresses, Till she bore a son in sorrow, Bore a son of love and sorrow. Thus was born my Hiawatha, Thus was born the child of wonder; But the daughter of Nokomis, Hiawatha's gentle mother, In her anguish died deserted By the West-Wind, false and faithless, By the heartless Mudjekeewis. For her daughter long and loudly Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis; "Oh that I were dead!" she murmured, "Oh that I were dead, as thou art! No more work, and no more weeping, Wahonowin! Wahonowin!" By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying, "Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!" Lulled him into slumber, singing, "Ewa-yea! my little owlet! Who is this, that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little owlet!" Many things Nokomis taught him Of the stars that shine in heaven; Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, Flaring far away to northward In the frosty nights of Winter; Showed the broad white road in heaven, Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. At the door on summer evenings Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, Heard the lapping of the waters, Sounds of music, words of wonder; 'Minne-wawa!" said the Pine-trees, Mudway-aushka!" said the water. Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening, With the twinkle of its candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes, And he sang the song of children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him: "Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, Little, flitting, white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me, Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!" Saw the moon rise from the water Rippling, rounding from the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "Once a warrior, very angry, Seized his grandmother, and threw her Up into the sky at midnight; Right against the moon he threw her; 'T is her body that you see there." Saw the rainbow in the heaven, In the eastern sky, the rainbow, Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "'T is the heaven of flowers you see there; All the wild-flowers of the forest, All the lilies of the prairie, When on earth they fade and perish, Blossom in that heaven above us." When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest, 'What is that?" he cried in terror, "What is that," he said, "Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "That is but the owl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other." Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in Summer, Where they hid themselves in Winter, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens." Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers." Then Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, He the traveller and the talker, He the friend of old Nokomis, Made a bow for Hiawatha; From a branch of ash he made it, From an oak-bough made the arrows, Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, And the cord he made of deer-skin. Then he said to Hiawatha: "Go, my son, in to the forest, Where the red deer herd together, Kill for us a famous roebuck, Kill for us a deer with antlers!" Forth into the forest straightway All alone walked Hiawatha Proudly, with his bow and arrows; And the birds sang round him, o'er him, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" Sang the robin, the Opechee, Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" Up the oak-tree, close beside him, Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, In and out among the branches, Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, Laughed, and said between his laughing, "Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" And the rabbit from his pathway Leaped aside, and at a distance Sat erect upon his haunches, Half in fear and half in frolic, Saying to the little hunter, "Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" But he heeded not, nor heard them, For his thoughts were with the red deer; On their tracks his eyes were fastened, Leading downward to the river, To the ford across the river, And as one in slumber walked he. Hidden in the alder-bushes, There he waited till the deer came, Till he saw two antlers lifted, Saw two eyes look from the thicket, Saw two nostrils point to windward, And a deer came down the pathway, Flecked with leafy light and shadow. And his heart within him fluttered, Trembled like the leaves above him, Like the birch-leaf palpitated, As the deer came down the pathway. Then, upon one knee uprising, Hiawatha aimed an arrow; Scarce a twig moved with his motion, Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, But the wary roebuck started, Stamped with all his hoofs together, Listened with one foot uplifted, Leaped as if to meet the arrow; Ah! the singing, fatal arrow, Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him! Dead he lay there in the forest, By the ford across the river; Beat his timid heart no longer, But the heart of Hiawatha Throbbed and shouted and exulted, As he bore the red deer homeward, And Iagoo and Nokomis Hailed his coming with applauses. From the red deer's hide Nokomis Made a cloak for Hiawatha, From the red deer's flesh Nokomis Made a banquet to his honor. All the village came and feasted, All the guests praised Hiawatha, Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-taha! Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!

25 - The Wreck of the Hesperus

It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailor, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, Oh say, what may it be?" "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" -- And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns, Oh say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light, Oh say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe! These long poems are also highly recommended, but were too long to include here:

Evangeline Courtship of Miles Standish Complete text of Hiawatha

Disclaimer: This Year 3 poetry selections was copied from the AO Website for personal use only and was shared on the AO FB group with intent for others to use for personal use. Biographies are from Wikipedia. Lesley Manning created this pdf and the pdf for the cover.