Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Birds Poems

Out of the bosom of the Air
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
...

O gift of God! O perfect day:
Whereon shall no man work, but play;
Whereon it is enough for me,
...

Black shadows fall
From the lindens tall,
That lift aloft their massive wall
Against the southern sky;
...

A fleet with flags arrayed
Sailed from the port of Brest,
And the Admiral's ship displayed
...

On the green little isle of Inchkenneth,
Who is it that walks by the shore,
So gay with his Highland blue bonnet,
...

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

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
...

Sweet the memory is to me
Of a land beyond the sea,
Where the waves and mountains meet,
Where amid her mulberry-trees
...

From the outskirts of the town
Where of old the mile-stone stood,
Now a stranger, looking down
...

Simon Danz has come home again,
From cruising about with his buccaneers;
He has singed the beard of the King of Spain,
...

O little feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside inn
...

In the village churchyard she lies,
Dust is in her beautiful eyes,
No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs;
...

No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks
The silence of the summer day,
As by the loveliest of all lakes
I while the idle hours away.
...

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death,
Passed o'er our village as the morning broke;
The dawn was on their faces, and beneath,
...

This song of mine
Is a Song of the Vine,
To be sung by the glowing embers
Of wayside inns,
...

Have I dreamed? or was it real,
What I saw as in a vision,
When to marches hymeneal
...

Under Mount Etna he lies,
It is slumber, it is not death;
...

Have you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told
Of the limitless realms of the air,--
...

Garlands upon his grave
And flowers upon his hearse,
And to the tender heart and brave
The tribute of this verse.
...

In the Valley of the Vire
Still is seen an ancient mill,
With its gables quaint and queer,
And beneath the window-sill,
...

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

Beautiful valley! through whose verdant meads
Unheard the Garigliano glides along;--
The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds,
...

How much of my young heart, O Spain,
Went out to thee in days of yore!
What dreams romantic filled my brain,
And summoned back to life again
...

Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives,
When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives,
Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,
...

Othere, the old sea-captain,
Who dwelt in Helgoland,
To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth,
...

Of Prometheus, how undaunted
On Olympus' shining bastions
His audacious foot he planted,
...

O lovely river of Yvette!
O darling river! like a bride,
Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette,
Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide.
...

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,
For those that wander they know not where
...

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if we will but tread
Beneath our feet each deed of shame!
...

Under the walls of Monterey
At daybreak the bugles began to play,
Victor Galbraith!
In the mist of the morning damp and gray,
...

A mist was driving down the British Channel,
The day was just begun,
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
...

Nowhere such a devious stream,
Save in fancy or in dream,
Winding slow through bush and brake,
...

The ceaseless rain is falling fast,
And yonder gilded vane,
Immovable for three days past,
Points to the misty main,
...

When Mazarvan the Magician
Journeyed westward through Cathay,
Nothing heard he but the praises
Of Badoura on his way.
...

Each heart has its haunted chamber,
Where the silent moonlight falls!
On the floor are mysterious footsteps,
There are whispers along the walls!
...

Warm and still is the summer night,
As here by the river's brink I wander;
White overhead are the stars, and white
...

Leafless are the trees; their purple branches
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral,
Rising silent
In the Red Sea of the winter sunset.
...

Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet,
His chestnut steed with four white feet,
Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,
Son of the road and bandit chief,
...

In Mather's Magnalia Christi,
Of the old colonial time,
May be found in prose the legend
That is here set down in rhyme.
...

In that building, long and low,
With its windows all a-row,
Like the port-holes of a hulk,
Human spiders spin and spin,
...

Up soared the lark into the air,
A shaft of song, a wingéd prayer,
As if a soul released from pain
Were flying back to heaven again.
...

A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,
A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
...

The brooklet came from the mountain,
As sang the bard of old,
Running with feet of silver
Over the sands of gold!
...

It was the season, when through all the land
The merle and mavis build, and building sing
Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand,
...

On St. Bavon's tower, commanding
Half of Flanders, his domain,
Charles the Emperor once was standing,
While beneath him on the landing
...

It was fifty years ago
In the pleasant month of May,
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,
A child in its cradle lay.
...

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain,
With his swarthy, grave commanders,
I forget in what campaign,
Long besieged, in mud and rain,
...

I have a vague remembrance
Of a story, that is told
In some ancient Spanish legend
...