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 | Longfellow's boyhood poems |  |
Once more the harp, that breath'd
By youth's fresh fount its numbers,
When beauty's hand had wreath'd
Her wild-flowers round its slumbers,
After long years of pain and tears
My hand from sleep hath woken,—
Though it has hung so long unstrung,
That Time the chords hath broken!
By youth's fresh fount its numbers,
When beauty's hand had wreath'd
Her wild-flowers round its slumbers,
After long years of pain and tears
My hand from sleep hath woken,—
Though it has hung so long unstrung,
That Time the chords hath broken!
| Longfellow's boyhood poems | |