The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR

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      Yes, the Year is growing old,

       And his eye is pale and bleared!

      Death, with frosty hand and cold,

       Plucks the old man by the beard,

       Sorely, sorely!

      The leaves are falling, falling,

       Solemnly and slow;

      Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,

       It is a sound of woe,

       A sound of woe!

      Through woods and mountain passes

       The winds, like anthems, roll;

      They are chanting solemn masses,

       Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,

       Pray, pray!"

      And the hooded clouds, like friars,

       Tell their beads in drops of rain,

      And patter their doleful prayers;

       But their prayers are all in vain,

       All in vain!

      There he stands in the foul weather,

       The foolish, fond Old Year,

      Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,

       Like weak, despised Lear,

       A king, a king!

      Then comes the summer-like day,

       Bids the old man rejoice!

      His joy! his last! O, the man gray

       Loveth that ever-soft voice,

       Gentle and low.

      To the crimson woods he saith,

       To the voice gentle and low

      Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,

       "Pray do not mock me so!

       Do not laugh at me!"

      And now the sweet day is dead;

       Cold in his arms it lies;

      No stain from its breath is spread

       Over the glassy skies,

       No mist or stain!

      Then, too, the Old Year dieth,

       And the forests utter a moan,

      Like the voice of one who crieth

       In the wilderness alone,

       "Vex not his ghost!"

      Then comes, with an awful roar,

       Gathering and sounding on,

      The storm-wind from Labrador,

       The wind Euroclydon,

       The storm-wind!

      Howl! howl! and from the forest

       Sweep the red leaves away!

      Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,

       O Soul! could thus decay,

       And be swept away!

      For there shall come a mightier blast,

       There shall be a darker day;

      And the stars, from heaven down-cast

       Like red leaves be swept away!

       Kyrie, eleyson!

       Christe, eleyson!

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EARLIER POEMS

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AN APRIL DAY

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      When the warm sun, that brings

      Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,

      'T is 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 colored wings

      Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along

       The forest openings.

       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.

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