Footsteps of Angels

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)

WHEN the hours of day are numbered,

And the voices of the night

Wake the better soul that slumbered

To a holy, calm delight,—

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,

And, like phantoms grim and tall,

Shadows from the fitful firelight

Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open door,—

The beloved ones, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more:

He, the young and strong, who cherished

Noble longings for the strife,

By the roadside fell and perished,

Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore,

Folded their pale hands so meekly,

Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the being beauteous

Who unto my youth was given,

More than all things else to love me,

And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep,

Comes that messenger divine,

Takes the vacant chair beside me,

Lays her gentle hand in mine;

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes,

Like the stars, so still and saint-like,

Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer,

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,

Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,

All my fears are laid aside

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!