H. W. Longfellow, Paul Revere and The Minutemen

 

One by Land N' Two by Sea

H. W. Longfellow & The Poem of The Air

 

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.

Even as our cloudy fancies take

   Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make

In the white countenance confession,

   The troubled sky reveals

   The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the Air,

   Slowly in silent syllables recorded;

This is the secret of despair,

   Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,

   Now whispered and revealed

   To Wood & Field.

Longfellow's "Snow-Flakes"

H. W. Longfellow (1807-1882): "The Arrow and The Song"

 

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.

101 Great American Poets

Dover Thrifts Editions 1998

Edited by The American Poetry & Literacy Project (AP&L Project)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) : from "The Masque of Pandora"

Let us go forth from this mysterious place.

The garden walks are pleasant at this hour;

The nightingales among the sheltering boughs

Of populous and many-nested trees

Shall teach me how to woo thee, and shall tell me

By what resistless charms or incantations

They won their mates.




To a Nightingale
Poems from Sappho to Borges
Edited by Edward Hirsch
George Braziller Inc. 2007



H. W. Longfellow  The Masque of Pandora 
1875

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) : from "The Masque of Pandora"

                                 III

TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT CAUCASUS

                                  PROMOTHEUS.

I HEAR the trumpet of Alectryon

Proclaim the dawn.   The stars begin to fade,

And all the heavens are full of prophecies

And evil auguries.   Blood-red last night

I saw great Kronos rise ; the crescent moon

Sank through the mist, as if it were the scythe

His parricidal hand had flung far down

The western steeps.   O ye immortal Gods,

What evils are ye plotting and contriving ?


             
        HERMES and PANDORA at the threshold

                                  PANDORA.

I cannot cross the threshold.   An unseen

And icy hand repels me.   These blank walls 

Oppress me with their weight !



                                   PROMETHEUS.

                                                 Powerful ye are,

But not omnipotent.   Ye cannot fight 

Against Necessity.   The Fates control you,

As they do us, and so far we are equals !


                                   PANDORA.

Motionless, passionless, companionless

He sits there muttering in his beard.   His voice 

Is like a river flowing underground!



                                  HERMES.

Prometheus,  hail !



                                  PROMETHEUS.

                                                  Who calls me  ?



                                 HERMES. 

                                                                 It is I.

Dost Thou not know me ?



                                  PROMETHEUS.

                                                   By thy winged cap

And winged heels I know thee.   Thou art Hermes,

Captain of thieves !   Hast thou again been stealing 

The heifers of Admetus in the sweet   

Meadows of asphodel ?   Or Hera's girdle ?

Or the earth-shaking trident of Poseidon ?                     



                                  HERMES.

And thou, Prometheus ; say , hast thou again

Been stealing fire from Helios' chariot-wheels

To light thy furnaces ?



                           PROMETHEUS.

                                   Why comest though hither

So early in the dawn ?



                            HERMES.

                                   The Immortal Gods 

Know naught of late or early.    Zeus himself 

The omnipotent hath sent me.



                            PROMETHEUS.

                                              For what purpose ?



                            HERMES.

To bring this maiden to thee.



                                   PROMETHEUS.

                                                   I mistrust

The Gods and all their gifts.   If they have sent her

It is for no good purpose.



                           HERMES.

                                                    What disaster

Could she bring on thy house, who is a woman ?



                                   PROMETHEUS.

The Gods are not my friends, nor am I theirs.

Whatever comes from them, though in a shape

As beautiful as this, is evil only.

Who art though ?



                                 PANDORA.

            One who, though to thee unknown,

Yet knoweth thee.



                                PROMETHEUS.

    How shouldst thou know me, woman ?





The Masque of Pandora , 1875

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882) : "Giotto's Tower"

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet 

    By self-devotion and by self-restraint,

    Whose pleasure is to run without complaint

    On unknown errands of the Paraclete,

Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet,

    Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint

   Around the shining forehead of the saint,

   And are in their completeness incomplete!

In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,

   The lily of Florence blossoming in stone, -

   A vision, a delight, and a desire, -

The builder's perfect and centennial flower,

    That in the night of ages bloomed alone,

    But wanting still the glory of the spire.

From "Flower - De - Luce"

Ticknor and Fields,  1867

Flower De Luce