The Good Part that shall not be taken away.

39

21

THE POETICAL WORKS OF

HENRY WADSWORTH

LONG FELLOW

EARLY POEMS

[WRITTEN FOR THE MOST PART DURING MY COLLEGE
LIFE, AND ALL OF THEM BEFORE THE AGE OF
NINETEEN.]

AN APRIL DAY

WHEN the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,

When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with Winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song

Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
The forest openings.

VOL. I.

A

When the bright sunset fills

The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,

And wide the upland glows.

And, when the eve is born,

In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,
And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide,

Stand the grey rocks, and trembling shadows throw;
And the fair trees look over, side by side,
And see themselves below.

Sweet April!-many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
Life's golden fruit is shed.

AUTUMN

WITH What a glory comes and goes the year!
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out.
And when the silvery habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales