Poem of the day-85: "Footsteps of Angels" by Longfellow

When the hours of Day are numbered
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!

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Poem of the day-83: "Hymn to the Night" by Longfellow

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might.
Stoop over me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night
Like some old poet’s rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there.
From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care.
And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair.
The best-beloved Night!

Poem of the day-82: "God’s Acre" by Longfellow

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God’s Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison over the sleeping dust.

God’s Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the arch-angel’s blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God.
This is the place, where human harvests grow!

Poem of the day-67: "God’s Acre" by Longfellow

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God’s-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison over the sleeping dust.

God’s-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more of their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the arch-angel’s blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God.
This is the place, where human harvests grow.

Poem of the day-6: ‘Daybreak’

Daybreak

A wind came up out of the sea,
And said, “O mists, make room for me.”
It hailed the ships, and cried: “Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone.”
And hurried landward far away,
Crying: “Awake! It is the day.”
It said unto the forest: “Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!”
It touched the woodbird’s folded wing,
And said: “O bird, awake and sing!”
And o’er the farms: “O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow: “the day is near.”
It whispered to the fields of corn:
“Bow down, and hail the coming morn.”
It shouted through the belfry tower:
“Awake, O bell, proclaim the hour!”
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said: “Not yet; in quiet lie.”

– H.W.Longfellow