Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(27 February 1807 – 24 March 1882 / Portland, Maine)

Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Finale


These are the tales those merry guests
Told to each other, well or ill;
Like summer birds that lift their crests
Above the borders of their nests
And twitter, and again are still.

These are the tales, or new or old,
In idle moments idly told;
Flowers of the field with petals thin,
Lilies that neither toil nor spin,
And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse
Hung in the parlor of the inn
Beneath the sign of the Red Horse.

And still, reluctant to retire,
The friends sat talking by the fire
And watched the smouldering embers burn
To ashes, and flash up again
Into a momentary glow,
Lingering like them when forced to go,
And going when they would remain;
For on the morrow they must turn
Their faces homeward, and the pain
Of parting touched with its unrest
A tender nerve in every breast.

But sleep at last the victory won;
They must be stirring with the sun,
And drowsily good night they said,
And went still gossiping to bed,
And left the parlor wrapped in gloom,
The only live thing in the room
Was the old clock, that in its pace
Kept time with the revolving spheres
And constellations in their flight,
And struck with its uplifted mace
The dark, unconscious hours of night,
To senseless and unlistening ears.

Uprose the sun; and every guest,
Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed
For journeying home and city-ward;
The old stage-coach was at the door,
With horses harnessed, long before
The sunshine reached the withered sward
Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar
Murmured: ?Farewell forevermore.?

?Farewell!? the portly Landlord cried;
?Farewell!? the parting guests replied,
But little thought that nevermore
Their feet would pass that thershold o?er;
That nevermore together there
Would they assemble, free from care,
To hear the oaks? mysterious roar,
And breathe the wholesome country air.

Where are they now? What lands and skies
Paint pictures in their friendly eyes?
What hope deludes, what promise cheers,
What pleasant voices fill their ears?
Two are beyond the salt sea waves,
And three already in their graves.
Perchance the living still may look
Into the pages of this book,
And see the days of long ago
Floating and fleeting to and fro,
As in the well-remembered brook
They saw the inverted landscape gleam,
And their own faces like a dream
Look up upon them from below.

Submitted: Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Finale by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Trending Poets

Trending Poems

  1. The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
  2. Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
  3. Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
  4. If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
  5. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
  6. Alone, Edgar Allan Poe
  7. "Hope" is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson
  8. Sciences Take xx xxx xx Original .., Lee Mack
  9. Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost
  10. Invictus, William Ernest Henley

Poem of the Day

poet Richard Lovelace

Tell me not (Sweet) I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
...... Read complete »

   

New Poems

  1. PH: Poetry Writing: In Poetry, Brian Johnston
  2. Moving Out, Adriana Avila
  3. The Main Ingredient, Lawrence S. Pertillar
  4. Missing From Action, Lawrence S. Pertillar
  5. 12 Poems (English) from the Poetry Hat, sheena blackhall
  6. Owl & Handbag, sheena blackhall
  7. Lighthouse, sheena blackhall
  8. Human Touch, Mark R Slaughter
  9. Fishing Village, sheena blackhall
  10. Skull, Mark R Slaughter
[Hata Bildir]