With what a gentle grace, with what serene Gaze on the world below, the sky above; Hark! there is some one singing in the street; 66 'Faith, Hope, and Love! these three," he seems to say; "These three; and greatest of the three is Love." HOLIDAYS. THE holiest of all holidays are those The sudden joys that out of darkness start White as the gleam of a receding sail, White as a cloud that floats and fades in air, WAPENTAKE. TO ALFRED TENNYSON. POET! I come to touch thy lance with mine; Of homage to the mastery, which is thine, Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, THE BROKEN OAR. "November 13, 1864. Stay at home and ponder upon Dante. I am frequently tempted to write upon my work the inscription found upon an oar cast on the coast of Iceland, Oft war ek dasa durek Oro thick. Oft was I weary when I tugged at thee." ONCE upon Iceland's solitary strand A poet wandered with his book and pen, Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen, Wherewith to close the volume in his hand. The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand, The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken, And from the parting cloud-rack now and then Flashed the red sunset over sea and land. Then by the billows at his feet was tossed A broken oar; and carved thereon he read: THE CROSS OF SNOW. 66 Written July 10, 1879. "Looking over one day," says Mr. Longfellow's biographer, an illustrated book of Western scenery, his attention was arrested by a picture of that mysterious mountain upon whose lonely, lofty breast the snow lies in long furrows that make a rude but wonderfully clear image of a vast cross. At night, as he looked upon the pictured countenance that hung upon his chamber wall, his thoughts framed themselves into the verses that follow. He put them away in his portfolio, where they were found after his death." IN the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face the face of one long deadLooks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. Here in this room she died; and soul more white Never through martyrdom of fire was led To its repose; nor can in books be read The legend of a life more benedight. There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side. Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes And seasons, changeless since the day she died. KERAMOS "On the 7th of May, 1877, he is trying to write a poem on the potter's wheel.' The then new interest in Ceramics had brought out a number of books upon that subject, one of which, it is likely, turned his thoughts in that direction. His memory recalled the old pottery, still standing in Portland, near Deering's Woods, where it had been a delight of his boyhood to stop and watch the bowl or pitcher of clay rise up under the workman's hand, as he stood at his wheel under the shadow of a thorn-tree. There, within doors, amid the shelves of pots and pans, he may have read the inscription upon a glazed tile, No handicraftman's art can with our art compare ; On the 3d of August is an entry in the journal, 'Received, from the Harpers, one thousand dollars for Kéramos.' The poem was published in their magazine with illustrations." S. Longfellow: Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, II. 460. The poem was the first in the volume Kéramos and other Poems, published in 1878. Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn round and round So spins the flying world away! This clay, well mixed with marl and sand, Follows the motion of my hand; For some must follow, and some command, Thus sang the Potter at his task Moved, as the boughs above him swayed, So sumptuously was he arrayed Of sable tissue flaked with fire. I stood in silence and apart, And wondered more and more to see Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must change Nothing that is can pause or stay; Thus still the Potter sang, and still, |