C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Bridge
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)
I
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o’er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.
In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.
Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
Seemed to lift and bear them away;
Rose the belated tide,
And streaming into the moonlight
The seaweed floated wide.
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o’er me
That filled my eyes with tears.
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky!
I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom
O’er the ocean wild and wide!
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.
Of care-incumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.
Still passing to and fro;
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes,—
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven
And its wavering image here.