Across the sea the swift sad message darts <br />And beats with sudden pang against our hearts. <br />Under the elm-trees in his homestead old <br />The Laureate of our land lies dead and cold; <br />Wept by the love of friends, and crowned with fame; <br />Revered by youth and age, his well-known name <br />Caught in fast-circling whispers, sad and low, <br />In streets where noisy crowds move too and fro — <br />'Can it be true that he is dead — is dead?' <br />Life seemed to love that noble, silvery head, <br />And youth still lingered in the kindly eyes <br />Now closed, alas, to all beneath the skies! <br />No more across the fields by Charles's stream <br />Those eyes shall see their well-loved landscape gleam. <br />No more the treasured books upon his shelves <br />Suggest the visions rarer than themselves. <br />No friends around his hospitable fire <br />Hear the last touches of his graceful lyre. <br />The coming spring will flush with purple bloom <br />His lilacs, and waft in their sweet perfume; <br />His roses unregarded drop away; <br />Unheard the oriole's warble through the day; <br />Unmarked the bees' low hum from flower to flower, <br />The dial's shade, the sunshine and the shower. <br />Yet from the garden of his thoughts and deeds <br />Still will his poems fly like winged seeds. <br />And far and wide, through city, plain and hill, <br />Borne to a thousand firesides, bloom and fill <br />The people's hearts, and touch to issues fine <br />Of aspiration human and divine.<br /><br />Christopher Pearse Cranch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/longfellow-5/
