Footsteps of Angels
When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;
He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.
Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Vous avez aimé cette poésie ? faites la connaître !
D'autres poésies de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A Gleam of Sunshine
This is the place. Stand still, my steed,
Let me review...
A Psalm of Life
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty...
Aftermath
When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds...
Afternoon in February
The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh...
An April Day
When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has...
Arrow and the Song, The
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not...
Arsenal at Springfield, The
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge...
Autumn
Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners,...
Autumn Within
It is autumn; not without
But within me is the...
Beleaguered City, The
I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend...
Précédentes poésies
Words of Comfort to Be Scratched on a Mirror
Helen of Troy had a wandering glance;
Sappho's restriction...
Wisdom
This I say, and this I know:
Love has seen the last of...
Walter Savage Landor
Upon the work of Walter Landor
I am unfit to write with...
Wail
Love has gone a-rocketing.
That is not the worst;
I...
Victoria
Dear dead Victoria
Rotted cosily;
In excelsis...
