Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Voices Poems

PRELUDE.

Pleasant it was, when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low,
...

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.
...

The night is come, but not too soon;
And sinking silently,
All silently, the little moon
Drops down behind the sky.
...

Aspasie, trillistos.

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
...

There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
...

When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;
...

Pleasant it was, when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene,
...

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the Castle Rhine,
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden
...

I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
...

Yes, the Year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
...

Ye voices, that arose
After the Evening's close,
And whispered to my restless heart repose!
...