Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (born Feb 27, 1807 – died March 24, 1882) was an American poet of the Romantic period. He served as a professor at Harvard University and was an good linguist, traveling throughout Europe and immersing himself in European culture and verse, which he emulated in his verse. Before television, radio, and film, he rose to get not just the leading poet and literary figure of 19th-century America, but also an American icon and household name.

x Greatest Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

by Satyananda Sarangi

Picking just 10 is a tricky equation when it concerns the works of a poet as prolific as Longfellow. From being a cornerstone of American poetry and culture to beingness the nigh widely read poet in his lifetime, he dared to plant this very fact that Romanticism wasn't confined to Europe (or British poets to be precise). With numerous translations from various languages, such every bit Spanish, German language, and Italian, his popularity was perhaps something that any poet could only dream of.

Information technology is an uphill task to compile his all-time ten, since many of his celebrated pieces similar Paul Revere's Ride, The Song of Hiawatha, Evangeline – A Tale of Acadie, The Wreck of the Hesperus, The Building of the Ship and My Lost Youth are long. For simplicity and convenience, I have stuck to his English language poems that run non more than 60 lines. (Read an excellent essay on The Wreck of the Hesperus here)

Here goes the list:

10. "Haunted Houses" (1858)

All houses wherein men have lived and died
__Are haunted houses. Through the open up doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
__With feet that make no audio upon the floors.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
__Along the passages they come and get,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
__A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table, than the hosts
__Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
__As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot run into
__The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
__All that has been is visible and clear.

Nosotros accept no title-deeds to house or lands;
__Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
__And agree in mortmain withal their sometime estates.

The spirit-world effectually this world of sense
__Floats similar an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense
__A vital breath of more than ethereal air.

Our niggling lives are kept in equipoise
__By reverse attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
__And the more than noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
__Of earthly wants and aspirations loftier,
Come from the influence of an unseen star,
__An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some nighttime gate of cloud
__Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
__Into the realm of mystery and nighttime,–

And so from the earth of spirits there descends
__A span of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
__Wander our thoughts higher up the dark abyss.

Written at a time when he was already renowned, Longfellow showcases his brilliance and versatility in what seems a ghostly poem at first. Merely then subtlety takes over and the reader is introduced to how psychic phenomena and worldly desires may go hand in hand. The salient feature of this word is the gradual shift from after-world powers to how they govern the ambitions and aspirations of mortals. Quite strange it appears, yet the mention of 'unseen planet' and ' undiscovered planet' further stress that uncanny forces may have had some role in the choices we make in this real globe. A brilliant imagery towards the end where 'the moonlight is perceived to be a span' turns out to be the icing on the cake. The poet is quite brave in pulling this off. Keeping in mind his inclination to romantic and sentimental works, he is aware of what he is best at.

9. "The Rainy Mean solar day" (1842)

The day is cold, and nighttime, and dreary;
It rains, and the air current is never weary;
The vine withal clings to the mouldering wall,
Just at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is common cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the current of air is never weary;
My thoughts however cling to the mouldering Past,
Only the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be withal, sad heart! and cease repining;
Backside the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the mutual fate of all,
Into each life some pelting must autumn,
Some days must exist dark and dreary.

How often has one meet a Longfellow poem that speaks of hope and optimism after taking us through gloomy lanes and cloudy circumstances? Relatively young at the time of this publication, the poet prefers the lines to be conveyed from the viewpoint of an old, ageing person pondering over his past and youth. Drawing a parallel between life and a bleak solar day works out well where the 'vine' symbolises 'thoughts' and 'expressionless leaves' are helpless as is the lost youth. A major portion of the poem relies on metaphorical effect, quite conspicuously an inherent skill of great Romantic bards. The closing quintain is a heave – anybody is put through rough patches to be able to win ; the universal canticle being that adversity (referred to as the rain) is inevitable and is the mother of success, for the lessons of 'dark days' are what acquit the vivid ones.

8. "Nature" (1878)

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And go out his broken playthings on the flooring,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more than splendid, may not delight him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes abroad
Our playthings one by i, and by the paw
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of slumber to empathize
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

The universal truth of 'death' has been used as a touching subject time and again. Nevertheless, monotony looms large but what stand up out here are the uniqueness and the well idea out lines by a rather growing sometime poet. In fact this piece is a metaphor in its entirety and deserves a place in all time death poems alongside Donne'due south 'Expiry Be Not Proud' and Shirley'south 'Death – The Leveller'. In the format of the Italian sonnet (or Petrarchan sonnet) with a simple rhyme, the act of a mother taking her kid to bed has been compared to how nature takes each of us to expiry. In both the actions, one seems reluctant – because how a child wishes to play even at late night and how life wishes to keep even when ane is too old. The 'playthings' are the bonds nosotros share, the 'rest' is expiry that sneaks in and our 'then gentle' departure, an unsolved mystery in itself.

7. "The Cross of Snow" (1879)

In the long, sleepless watches of the nighttime,
A gentle face—the face of 1 long dead—
Looks at me from the wall, where round its caput
The dark-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more than white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The fable of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the afar West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snowfall upon its side.
Such is the cross I clothing upon my chest
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, invariable since the day she died.

In the words of Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, 'Poetry comes from the highest happiness or the deepest sorrow'; 'The Cross of Snow' being an expression of the latter. Simple nevertheless striking, straight forward and drawn from a real life of hardships and mishaps, this sonnet goes down every bit one of his memorable tributes to Frances Appleton, his deceased wife and the portrayal of his sadness attributable to her absenteeism. Much pivotal to the emotional aspects are 'sleepless', 'halo of stake low-cal' and 'gentle face'. The reason of her death referred to as ' martyrdom of burn down' and the comparing between the natural landscape'southward cross and the cross of Christ donned by the poet himself lend a powerful emotional quotient to the poem – a feature of nigh of his serious poetry in later life. Delving further into the reference made to 'the cross', 'cross' depicts the poet's longing, seen as a lifelong burden that he has to bear.

6. "The Ladder of St. Augustine" (1858)

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
__That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if nosotros will but tread
__Below our feet each human activity of shame!
All common things, each solar day's events,
__That with the hour brainstorm and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
__Are rounds by which we may ascend.
The low want, the base pattern,
__That makes another'due south virtues less;
The revel of the ruddy wine,
__And all occasions of backlog;
The longing for ignoble things;
__The strife for triumph more than truth;
The hardening of the heart, that brings
__Irreverence for the dreams of youth;
All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
__That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes
__The activity of the nobler will;—
All these must first be trampled down
__Beneath our feet, if nosotros would gain
In the vivid fields of fair renown
__The right of eminent domain.
Nosotros have not wings, we cannot soar;
__But nosotros have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more than,
__The cloudy summits of our time.
The mighty pyramids of stone
__That wedge-similar carve the desert arrogance,
When nearer seen, and better known,
__Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The afar mountains, that uprear
__Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed past pathways, that appear
__As we to college levels rising.
The heights by great men reached and kept
__Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
__Were toiling upward in the dark.
Standing on what too long we bore
__With shoulders bent and downcast optics,
We may discern—unseen before—
__A path to higher destinies.
Nor deem the irrevocable Past,
__Every bit wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at final
__To something nobler nosotros attain.

Finally, nosotros arrive at i such poem that gives the impression of the typical Longfellow verse – inspiring with lofty ideals that lift the spirit no matter what. The whole of this, if summarised, is a clarion call for rise to the occasion, employing symbols that are non at all imaginative but truths encountered through life. Beginning from what St. Augustine has preached in Christianity, the poet lays out the negative qualities of homo, ultimately resulting in hindrances to his betterment by the usage of 'longing for ignoble things', 'strife for triumph more than than truth 'and 'all occasions of excess'. The magnificent imagery is taken good care of by 'cloudy summits of our fourth dimension', 'gigantic flights of stairs' and 'solid bastions to the skies' – the anticipated manner in which the poet makes very fine utilize of poetic devices. The clear message delivered is that we demand to have patience to pursue our goals; for Rome was not built in a 24-hour interval.

"The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
Simply they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling up in the dark."

Moreover, this quatrain continues to be one of the virtually popular even today.

5. "Excelsior" (1842)

The shades of night were falling fast,
Every bit through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
__Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a argent clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
__Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the calorie-free
Of household fires gleam warm and brilliant;
Higher up, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
__Excelsior!

"Effort not the Pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!
And loud that clarion voice replied,
__Excelsior!

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright bluish eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,
__Excelsior!

"Beware the pino-tree'due south withered branch!
Beware the atrocious barrage!"
This was the peasant'due south terminal Good-dark,
A voice replied, far up the peak,
__Excelsior!

At intermission of twenty-four hours, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the frequently-repeated prayer,
A vox cried through the startled air,
__Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Even so grasping in his hand of water ice
That banner with the strange device,
__Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
__Excelsior!

From the 'Ballads and Other Poems', this short poem is obvious at the surface, though it caters to a very different idea. Information technology possesses a difference from typical 'aim college' themes that have been the poet'southward speciality equally seen in the previous poem. 'Excelsior' – a Latin word meaning 'even so higher' is somewhat the engine that drives the plot; its repetition afterwards every stanza points towards a 'warning' bell to the protagonist (a swain) as well as to every reader. The description captures the mammoth task ahead of the young mountaineer past phrases such as 'snowfall and ice', 'tempest overhead', 'the roaring torrent' and 'the awful barrage'. Although he is shown as brave and steadfast in his vision, the successive warnings issued to him by an onetime human being, a maiden and then the peasant convince u.s.a. that the errand is style too much. Often in life, we take a difficult stance on matters and the realisation comes when all's washed and dusted. Determination and perseverance are essential, simply a wise person knows where to draw the line; the ending quatrain is just like the consolation we may take to ourselves. At present, what is more appealing about 'Excelsior' is its tone, a complete contrast to the tone in 'The Ladder of St. Augustine'. However, equally i may find, the ill of 'the strife for triumph more than truth' from the latter is a similarity between the 2 poems. As a thing of fact, 'Excelsior' continues to be a widely anthologised piece.

4. "The Reapers and the Flowers" (1839)

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
__And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
__And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I accept naught that is off-white?" saith he;
__"Have naught only the bearded grain?
Though the jiff of these flowers is sweet to me,
__I will requite them all back once more."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
__He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
__He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
__The Reaper said, and smiled;
"Love tokens of the earth are they,
__Where He was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
__Transplanted past my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
__These sacred blossoms habiliment."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
__The flowers she virtually did beloved;
She knew she should observe them all once more
__In the fields of light higher up.

Oh, not in cruelty, non in wrath,
__The Reaper came that day;
'T was an affections visited the green world,
__And took the flowers away.

Throughout the narration, there hasn't been any directly reference to the characters and events. A young Longfellow is more adept at personification – this is what takes united states by surprise and despite very loose meter, 'The Reapers and the Flowers' manages to interruption into the top five. When 'Death' is the reaper who takes along with him 'the erstwhile' otherwise shown as 'bearded grains' and sometimes even 'flowers' (the youth), one may predict how the poem would end. The mother, who represents the earth symbolically, is assured that her children (flowers) would notice a meliorate home in 'fields of low-cal above' (heaven) and in spite of her beloved, she gives them away. However, the poet decides to return information technology a twist i.e. the reaper who took the flowers that day must've been some angel sent by God, as revealed in the last stanza. The greatest quality of this poem lies in its deeper layers of allegory. This short ballad is believed to point out nonetheless another result from the poet's life – the miscarriage suffered by his first married woman, Mary Potter around that time. Having a bones meaning to itself, the figurative language elevates this piece to a college level, for it paraphrases 'Whom the Gods love, dice young'.

3. "The Children's Hour" (1863)

Between the dark and the daylight,
__When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
__That is known as the Children'due south Hour.

I hear in the chamber to a higher place me
__The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
__And voices soft and sweetness.

From my study I come across in the lamplight,
__Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
__And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
__Still I know by their merry optics
They are plotting and planning together
__To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
__A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
__They enter my castle wall!

They climb upwards into my turret
__O'er the arms and dorsum of my chair;
If I endeavor to escape, they surround me;
__They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
__Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
__In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do y'all think, O blue-eyed banditti,
__Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache equally I am
__Is not a match for y'all all!

I take you fast in my fortress,
__And will not let you depart,
But put you lot down into the dungeon
__In the round-tower of my eye.

And there will I keep you forever,
__Yeah, forever and a 24-hour interval,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
__And moulder in dust away!

One often wonders how Longfellow comes up with such a merry, uncomplicated poem which he not just manages to write well, but also immortalises his 3 daughters by including them in information technology. This piece brings forth a welcome relief to readers and to the poet himself, equally more than serious poetry was what he was used to penning then. In the very outset stanza, he refers to a cursory menstruum in the evening as 'the children's hour' when he, otherwise occupied in his study, has some time to spare for his children. Seen every bit flake grave for most of the time, Longfellow lets the sugariness and lovely begetter figure of himself take centerstage – unusual however 18-carat in expressing his beloved. When Alice, Allegra and Edith hatch a plot to surprise him, he is aware of their footsteps but pretends otherwise. The mention of 'Bishop of Bingen in his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine' emphasises the poet'due south powerless status for a brusque while; which he recovers from thereafter with the last and last simply one quatrains. Struck by fatal tragedies during his lifetime, the poem in a function shows the poet's insecurities – some of them hidden in lines:

But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Aye, forever and a solar day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in grit away!

Nonetheless, 'The Children's 60 minutes' is a timeless piece of work depicting paternal gesture.

ii. "The Twenty-four hours is Done" (1845)

The day is done, and the darkness
__Falls from the wings of Dark,
As a plumage is wafted downward
__From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the hamlet
__Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
__That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
__That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow simply
__Equally the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
__Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
__And blackball the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
__Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
__Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
__Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
__And to-nighttime I long for residue.
Read from some humbler poet,
__Whose songs gushed from his middle,
Every bit showers from the clouds of summer,
__Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
__And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
__Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs accept ability to quiet
__The restless pulse of care,
And come similar the benediction
__That follows later prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
__The verse form of thy pick,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
__The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
__And the cares, that infest the twenty-four hour period,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
__And as silently steal away.

'The 24-hour interval is Done' may have a anticipated championship deemed sufficient to guess its content, though it isn't and then. Dissimilar many of his significant works based on folklore, legends and stories, this one is tailor-made for a particular occasion—to be read at the terminate of a tiring day along with poesy, merely non from any famous poet's collection. When almost of Longfellow'due south poems speak of generalised ideas applicable to common readers, this remains the odd one out. The inflow of sunset and darkness is obvious and unnoticed like the falling down of an eagle's feather. The introductory lines set a dampening mood—perfectly synonymous to the mood subsequently a long day'due south work; further bearing a strange sadness inside the narrator—sadness sans concrete reasons. The just way out from this depressing setting may come up from listening to poetry. But soothing poems would fare improve than pop ones, because they ought to exist spontaneous like tears and rainfall in summertime; this beingness axiomatic from 'some simple and heartfelt lay', 'from some humbler poet' and 'songs gushed from his heart'. Use of plain similes similar 'cares existence tents like those of the Arabs' and correlation betwixt rain, mist, sadness and sorrow, renders a mighty rhythm and an unbelievable imagery. A tremendous flow, that is seldom interrupted, elevates this work to the second spot.

1. "A Psalm of Life" (1839)

What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist

Tell me non, in mournful numbers,
__Life is just an empty dream!
For the soul is expressionless that slumbers,
__And things are non what they seem.

Life is real! Life is hostage!
__And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to grit returnest,
__Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
__Is our destined end or way;
Only to act, that each to-morrow
__Find us farther than to-24-hour interval.

Fine art is long, and Time is fleeting,
__And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, similar muffled drums, are chirapsia
__Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
__In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
__Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
__Permit the expressionless Past coffin its dead!
Human activity,—human activity in the living Nowadays!
__Middle within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of peachy men all remind us
__We can make our lives sublime,
And, parting, leave backside the states
__Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
__Sailing o'er life'southward solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
__Seeing, shall take heart once again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
__With a center for whatever fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
__Larn to labor and to wait.

Anyone with a petty involvement in English poetry, must have had this poem etched into memory; hence no guesses near Longfellow's best poem. Such is its evocative eloquence, such is its superior outcome on every person regardless of class, religion and nationality that information technology transcends the boundaries of a mere vocal, and in the correct sense, transforms into a psalm – a path to be followed for glorified and righteous life. Recited at Senate meetings, public gatherings and even at churches, this verse form is sometimes speculated to accept inspired Longfellow after he had come beyond a lath in a High german graveyard. Certainly his greatest, 'Psalm of Life' seems to have varied ideas where each quatrain is a guideline in itself.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!

These get-go ii lines provide the impetus to how the rest of the poem is to go on. And indeed, he is 100 percent truthful in conveying that instead of blaming life, one must work towards improving information technology by making judicious utilisation of our short lives.

Taking into business relationship some other stanza:

Trust no Hereafter, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past coffin its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

I can faintly call back people effectually me quoting the in a higher place lines to lend support to i another while in distress. The central theme never deviates from the 'don't give up' catch phrase. Much credit goes to 'A Psalm of Life' in enabling Longfellow to leave his 'footprints on the sands of fourth dimension' fifty-fifty after almost two centuries have faded from when he wrote it.

I tin bet that most of the poems that have made it to the list, would brand information technology onto any Longfellow follower's listing of top 10 (where the order can vary a thousand times for a thousand lists). Although the literary stardom of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow has dwindled ever since the advent of 20th century, his legacy is as m every bit his rising to fame.

An alumnus of IGIT Sarang, Satyananda Sarangi is a immature poet who enjoys reading Longfellow, Shelley, Coleridge, Yeats and many others. His works accept featured in Glass: Facets of Poetry, WestWard Quarterly, The GreenSilk Periodical and other national magazines and books. He also loves electrical machines and renewable free energy sources. Currently, he resides in Odisha, India.

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