 | Longfellow's boyhood poems |  |
49
A WINTER'S NIGHT
'T is night again—I hear the breeze
Mourning round Winter's icy urn:
I see the moon from the pale trees
Within their sanctuary burn.
Mourning round Winter's icy urn:
I see the moon from the pale trees
Within their sanctuary burn.
Night from her golden censer throws
An offering to the new-born year—
Her light is on the virgin snows,
Her musick in the winds I hear.
An offering to the new-born year—
Her light is on the virgin snows,
Her musick in the winds I hear.
The stars are bright.—A mist enshrouds
The distant hill—but heaven is fair,
Save where the many-folded clouds
Are white in the cold mountain air.
The distant hill—but heaven is fair,
Save where the many-folded clouds
Are white in the cold mountain air.
There is no sound but winds.—They stir
Amid the giant company
That crowds this amphitheatre.—
How eloquent they are to me!
Amid the giant company
That crowds this amphitheatre.—
How eloquent they are to me!
Nature! thou hast grown mute to those
That hear not in the wintry sky,—
When the night winds harmonious close—
The still voice of humanity!
That hear not in the wintry sky,—
When the night winds harmonious close—
The still voice of humanity!
I hear it—and I see thy form
Moving on Winter's silver cloud:—
I hear it—and the muttering storm
Reveals thee, when its winds are loud.
Moving on Winter's silver cloud:—
I hear it—and the muttering storm
Reveals thee, when its winds are loud.
H.
January 4, 1825
| Longfellow's boyhood poems | |