 | Longfellow's boyhood poems |  |
23
[THERE'S NOT A CLOUD]
There's not a cloud in yon blue sky,
So beautiful and clear!
There's not a wind, that breathes on high
Its music to my ear!—
But sentry stars, at night's still noon,
Are watching 'round the crescent moon,
Where beaming full and fair,
Her silver lamp in heaven is hung,
And songs from many a seraph tongue
Sound to the clear cold air.
So beautiful and clear!
There's not a wind, that breathes on high
Its music to my ear!—
But sentry stars, at night's still noon,
Are watching 'round the crescent moon,
Where beaming full and fair,
Her silver lamp in heaven is hung,
And songs from many a seraph tongue
Sound to the clear cold air.
How beautiful, whilst faint and far
The rushing tempest speeds,
By the bright morn and wandering star,
The Night, her young-hours leads!—
Methinks, that from this world of pain
The Spirit could take wing again,
On such a night as this,
And purified from the gross earth,—
The sorrows of a mortal birth,—
Fly off to worlds of bliss.
The rushing tempest speeds,
By the bright morn and wandering star,
The Night, her young-hours leads!—
Methinks, that from this world of pain
The Spirit could take wing again,
On such a night as this,
And purified from the gross earth,—
The sorrows of a mortal birth,—
Fly off to worlds of bliss.
There is a beauty in the light
Of the moon's silver beam,—
A holiness in that still height
Like young love's earliest dream!—
A quiet in the hour of sleep,
When the sad spirit wakes to weep
The sorrows of its days,
That comes upon me, as the wing
Of the light gale of fragrant Spring
Around the lute-chord plays.
Of the moon's silver beam,—
A holiness in that still height
Like young love's earliest dream!—
A quiet in the hour of sleep,
When the sad spirit wakes to weep
The sorrows of its days,
That comes upon me, as the wing
Of the light gale of fragrant Spring
Around the lute-chord plays.
24
And thou art fair, thou New-born Year,
Though, heralding thy birth,
The night-wind moan'd through woodlands sere,
And wav'd their branches forth,—
Though the night-dirge, above the grave,
Was the sole musick Winter gave,
To bid thine advent speed!—
For his rude hand had broken in pride
The lute of Nature's Summer tide,
And Autumn's mellow reed.
Though, heralding thy birth,
The night-wind moan'd through woodlands sere,
And wav'd their branches forth,—
Though the night-dirge, above the grave,
Was the sole musick Winter gave,
To bid thine advent speed!—
For his rude hand had broken in pride
The lute of Nature's Summer tide,
And Autumn's mellow reed.
H.
January 14, 1824.
| Longfellow's boyhood poems | |