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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Short Poems

Famous Short Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. A collection of the all-time best Henry Wadsworth Longfellow short poems


by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
 From the outskirts of the town,
Where of old the mile-stone stood,
Now a stranger, looking down
I behold the shadowy crown
Of the dark and haunted wood.
Is it changed, or am I changed? Ah! the oaks are fresh and green, But the friends with whom I ranged Through their thickets are estranged By the years that intervene.
Bright as ever flows the sea, Bright as ever shines the sun, But alas! they seem to me Not the sun that used to be, Not the tides that used to run.



by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
 When the summer fields are mown, 
When the birds are fledged and flown, 
And the dry leaves strew the path; 
With the falling of the snow, 
With the cawing of the crow, 
Once again the fields we mow 
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers Is this harvesting of ours; Not the upland clover bloom; But the rowen mixed with weeds, Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds In the silence and the gloom.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
 It is autumn; not without
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.
Birds are darting through the air, Singing, building without rest; Life is stirring everywhere, Save within my lonely breast.
There is silence: the dead leaves Fall and rustle and are still; Beats no flail upon the sheaves, Comes no murmur from the mill.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
 When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.
I am aware How many days have been idly spent; How like an arrow the good intent Has fallen short or been turned aside.
But who shall dare To measure loss and gain in this wise? Defeat may be victory in disguise; The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
 One day, Haroun Al Raschid read
A book wherein the poet said:-- 

"Where are the kings, and where the rest
Of those who once the world possessed? 

"They're gone with all their pomp and show,
They're gone the way that thou shalt go.
"O thou who choosest for thy share The world, and what the world calls fair, "Take all that it can give or lend, But know that death is at the end!" Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head: Tears fell upon the page he read.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
 Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent and soft and slow
Descends the snow.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
 I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.



by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
 How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
Cried the African monarch, the splendid,
As down to his death in the hollow
Dark dungeons of Rome he descended,
Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended;
How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 

How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended,
As the vision, that lured him to follow,
With the mist and the darkness blended,
And the dream of his life was ended;
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
 Viswamitra the Magician,
By his spells and incantations,
Up to Indra's realms elysian
Raised Trisanku, king of nations.
Indra and the gods offended Hurled him downward, and descending In the air he hung suspended, With these equal powers contending.
Thus by aspirations lifted, By misgivings downward driven, Human hearts are tossed and drifted Midway between earth and heaven.


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