Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882). Complete Poetical Works. 1893.

Voices of the Night


  • The title Voices of the Night originally was used by Mr. Longfellow for the poem Footsteps of Angels; then he gave it to the first collected volume of his poetry with special application to the group of eight poems following Prelude. Here it is confined to this group.

  • PLEASANT it was, when woods were green

    And winds were soft and low,

    To lie amid some sylvan scene,

    Where, the long drooping boughs between,

    Shadows dark and sunlight sheen

    Alternate come and go;

    Or where the denser grove receives

    No sunlight from above,

    But the dark foliage interweaves

    In one unbroken roof of leaves,

    Underneath whose sloping eaves

    The shadows hardly move.

    Beneath some patriarchal tree

    I lay upon the ground;

    His hoary arms uplifted he,

    And all the broad leaves over me

    Clapped their little hands in glee,

    With one continuous sound;—

    A slumberous sound, a sound that brings

    The feelings of a dream,

    As of innumerable wings,

    As, when a bell no longer swings,

    Faint the hollow murmur rings

    O’er meadow, lake, and stream.

    And dreams of that which cannot die,

    Bright visions, came to me,

    As lapped in thought I used to lie,

    And gaze into the summer sky,

    Where the sailing clouds went by,

    Like ships upon the sea;

    Dreams that the soul of youth engage

    Ere Fancy has been quelled;

    Old legends of the monkish page,

    Traditions of the saint and sage,

    Tales that have the rime of age,

    And chronicles of eld.

    And, loving still these quaint old themes,

    Even in the city’s throng

    I feel the freshness of the streams,

    That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,

    Water the green land of dreams,

    The holy land of song.

    Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings

    The Spring, clothed like a bride,

    When nestling buds unfold their wings,

    And bishop’s-caps have golden rings,

    Musing upon many things,

    I sought the woodlands wide.

    The green trees whispered low and mild;

    It was a sound of joy!

    They were my playmates when a child,

    And rocked me in their arms so wild!

    Still they looked at me and smiled,

    As if I were a boy;

    And ever whispered, mild and low,

    “Come, be a child once more!”

    And waved their long arms to and fro,

    And beckoned solemnly and slow;

    Oh, I could not choose but go

    Into the woodlands hoar,—

    Into the blithe and breathing air,

    Into the solemn wood,

    Solemn and silent everywhere!

    Nature with folded hands seemed there,

    Kneeling at her evening prayer!

    Like one in prayer I stood.

    Before me rose an avenue

    Of tall and sombrous pines;

    Abroad their fan-like branches grew,

    And, where the sunshine darted through,

    Spread a vapor soft and blue,

    In long and sloping lines.

    And, falling on my weary brain,

    Like a fast-falling shower,

    The dreams of youth came back again,—

    Low lispings of the summer rain,

    Dropping on the ripened grain,

    As once upon the flower.

    Visions of childhood! Stay, oh, stay!

    Ye were so sweet and wild!

    And distant voices seemed to say,

    “It cannot be! They pass away!

    Other themes demand thy lay;

    Thou art no more a child!

    “The land of Song within thee lies,

    Watered by living springs;

    The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyes

    Are gates unto that Paradise;

    Holy thoughts, like stars, arise;

    Its clouds are angels’ wings.

    “Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,

    Not mountains capped with snow,

    Nor forests sounding like the sea,

    Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,

    Where the woodlands bend to see

    The bending heavens below.

    “There is a forest where the din

    Of iron branches sounds!

    A mighty river roars between,

    And whosoever looks therein

    Sees the heavens all black with sin,

    Sees not its depths, nor bounds.

    “Athwart the swinging branches cast,

    Soft rays of sunshine pour;

    Then comes the fearful wintry blast;

    Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast;

    Pallid lips say, ‘It is past!

    We can return no more!’

    “Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

    Yes, into Life’s deep stream!

    All forms of sorrow and delight,

    All solemn Voices of the Night,

    That can soothe thee, or affright,—

    Be these henceforth thy theme.”