Three Friends of Mine

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow * Track #160 On The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Three Friends of Mine by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Three Friends of Mine Annotated

I

When I remember them, those friends of mine,
Who are no longer here, the noble three,
Who half my life were more than friends to me,
And whose discourse was like a generous wine,
I most of all remember the divine
Something, that shone in them, and made us see
The archetypal man, and what might be
The amplitude of Nature's first design.
In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands;
I cannot find them. Nothing now is left
But a majestic memory. They meanwhile
Wander together in Elysian lands,
Perchance remembering me, who am bereft
Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile.

II

In Attica thy birthplace should have been,
& Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas
& Encircle in their arms the Cyclades,
& So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene
And childlike joy of life, O Philhellene!
& Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees;
& Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates,
& And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne.
For thee old legends breathed historic breath;
& Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea,
& And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold!
O, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death,
& Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee,
& That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old!

III

I stand again on the familiar shore,
& And hear the waves of the distracted sea
& Piteously calling and lamenting thee,
& And waiting restless at thy cottage door.
The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean floor,
& The willows in the meadow, and the free
& Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me;
& Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more?
Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men
& Are busy with their trivial affairs,
& Having and holding? Why, when thou hadst read
Nature's mysterious manuscript, and then
& Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears,
& Why art thou silent! Why shouldst thou be dead?

IV

River, that stealest with such silent pace
& Around the City of the Dead, where lies
& A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes
& Shall see no more in his accustomed place,
Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace
& And say good night, for now the western skies
& Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise
& Like damps that gather on a dead man's face.
Good night! good night! as we so oft have said
& Beneath this roof at midnight in the days
& That are no more, and shall no more return.
Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed;
& I stay a little longer, as one stays
& To cover up the embers that still burn.

V

The doors are all wide open; at the gate
& The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze,
& And seem to warm the air; a dreamy haze
& Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fate,
And on their margin, with sea-tides elate,
& The flooded Charles, as in the happier days,
& Writes the last letter of his name, and stays
& His restless steps, as if compelled to wait.
I also wait; but they will come no more,
& Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied
& The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah me!
They have forgotten the pathway to my door!
& Something is gone from nature since they died,
& And summer is not summer, nor can be.

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