Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poems

Ah me! ah me! when thinking of the years,
The vanished years, alas, I do not find
Among them all one day that was my own!
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'Tis late at night, and in the realm of sleep
My little lambs are folded like the flocks;
From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks
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Quand les astres de Noël
Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel,
Six gaillards, et chacun ivre,
Chantaient gaiment dans le givre,
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IN that delightful land, which is washed by the Delaware's waters,
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle.
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Four limpid lakes,--four Naiades
Or sylvan deities are these,
In flowing robes of azure dressed;
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This song of mine
Is a Song of the Vine,
To be sung by the glowing embers
Of wayside inns,
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MANY a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pré,
When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,
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It is autumn; not without
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.
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When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
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BENT like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;
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