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Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow





Laugh of the mountain!--lyre of bird and tree!
  Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!
  The soul of April, unto whom are born
  The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
Although, where'er thy devious current strays,
  The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,
  To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
  Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze.
How without guile thy bosom, all transparent
  As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye
  Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count!
How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current!
  O sweet simplicity of days gone by!
  Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount!