The Poet and the Children

Longfellow

WITH a glory of winter sunshine

Over his locks of gray,

In the old historic mansion

He sat on his last birthday;

With his books and his pleasant pictures,

And his household and his kin,

While a sound as of myriads singing

From far and near stole in.

It came from his own fair city,

From the prairie’s boundless plain,

From the Golden Gate of sunset,

And the cedarn woods of Maine.

And his heart grew warm within him,

And his moistening eyes grew dim,

For he knew that his country’s children

Were singing the songs of him:

The lays of his life’s glad morning,

The psalms of his evening time,

Whose echoes shall float forever

On the winds of every clime.

All their beautiful consolations,

Sent forth like birds of cheer,

Came flocking back to his windows,

And sang in the Poet’s ear.

Grateful, but solemn and tender,

The music rose and fell

With a joy akin to sadness

And a greeting like farewell.

With a sense of awe he listened

To the voices sweet and young;

The last of earth and the first of heaven

Seemed in the songs they sung.

And waiting a little longer

For the wonderful change to come,

He heard the Summoning Angel,

Who calls God’s children home!

And to him in a holier welcome

Was the mystical meaning given

Of the words of the blessed Master:

“Of such is the kingdom of heaven!”

1882.