As, sweeping and eddying through them, And, streaming into the moonlight, And like those waters rushing How often, O, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, O, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, But now it has fallen from me, Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Have crossed the bridge since then. SEA-WEED. I see the long procession And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, The moon and its broken reflection WHEN SEA-WEED. THEN descends on the Atlantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges Laden with sea-weed from the rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges In some far-off, bright Azore; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, On the desolate, rainy seas; 43 Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main ; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted, With the golden fruit of Truth; In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavor That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless heart; Household words, no more depart. While through the meadows, A funeral train. The bell is pealing, To the dismal knell ; Shadows are trailing, Like a funeral bell. THE DAY IS DONE. THE HE day is done, and the darkness As a feather is wafted downward I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist : A feeling of sadness and longing, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, |