And the Song from Beginning to End . . .

. . . I found again in the heart of a friend. 

So many truths in such musical, lilting verse. *sigh* A master... a pure, incredible genius. If I ever decided that poetry was my primary form of writing, he would be my patron saint. Who is it, you may ask? Well, if you don't remember that lovely couplet, perhaps you'll recognize some titles: 

The Song of Hiawatha

The Village Blacksmith

Arrow and the Song

Psalm of Life

Paul Revere's Ride

Anything? Well, that would be Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Ever since I first loved poetry, I have adored this man's writing. those five listed are just five of about 174(I think) pieces, including poems and epic(that means really, really long, just FYI) poems. I have not read nearly all of them, though I'm working on it. 

I don't want this to be a research paper, but here's a little bit of background on the poet (I did use this guy for a couple of assignments, so I know some stuff. I'll try to just sum up.) :

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine in February of 1807, and he had a very interesting life as a poet, a linguist, a traveler, and a romantic. In the course of his career, he wrote over 170 works, and over the years he became fluent in a number of languages, including Italian, French, Spanish, and German. During his lifetime, he was a national literary figure and considered one of America’s most famous poets. Even today, he is still considered one of America’s most distinguished poets, and remains greatly loved by many. Myself included. 

That sounded incredibly research-papery. Sorry. Truth is I actually wrote that like a week ago for an assignment for computers class- don't ask. Really, everyone should be happy I stick to writing. Anyway. The point is, Longfellow was a pretty rad guy. There's even a town in Maine that commemorates his birthday every year, calling them "Longfellow Days," and most people I know have at some time or another been assigned the poem "Paul Revere's Ride" for English class. 

It's an older style, rhyming and lyrical, and not the "free spirited" type that seems to be increasingly popular in today's literary society (not that I'm knocking that kind, don't get me wrong), but nothing captures my heart so much as Longfellow's poetry. It has a tempo and it resonates as the words flow after one another... 

Wow, I'm just realizing how absolutely, incredibly nerdy this sounds... oh well. : ) 

Not only did Longfellow write things that just have a music of their own, he covered so many "truths," as poets often do. He talked about life, love, loss, friendship, kinship, families, sorrow, joy, told stories, taught history... I can't really help being a little bit starstruck. 

I think the reason I so quickly fell in love with Longfellow poetry was that the first poem I ever memorized was "The Villiage Blacksmith." "Under a spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands, the smith a mighty man is he with large and sinewy hands, the muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron bands..." I can still recite it by heart. One of my absolute favorites is "The Arrow and the Song." Here, read for yourself:

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

Yay. : ) The prosody in this piece just makes my heart smile, and the sentiment of friendship rings true. Plus, it kinda reminds me a little bit of Robin Hood, and that's always exciting. Hehe.

Hahaha! Oh my gosh, apparently Google thinks of Robin Hood, too, because
this is what I got in a Google image search for this poem. 

 Another absolutely beautiful piece of art is "A Psalm of Life" (This one's a little longer): 

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
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!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait. 

Pretty sure if nothing else, you've heard the last three stanzas, typically entitled "Footprints on the sand," and normally accompanied by a sunset beach picture with, well, footprints on the sand. 

Like this for instance.

Gah! That wording, the rhythm! The word "bivouac" is just such a good word, and "sublime" is, well, sublime, I guess. I was actually going to just highlight one couplet or stanza and expound upon the truths of life and beauty of language, but I couldn't pick one. I sometimes image an old, Gandalf-like sage intoning this in a voice that echos the depths of the ages. Maybe that's what Longfellow did in his down time; his alter ego was a wise man who sits on a mountain and waits to give advice in a deep, echoey voice to anyone with the fortune, or misfortune, I guess, to find themselves on his hilltop. Hmm. Anyway... 

Okay, just one more... not poem, just the last two stanzas of my first exposure to the genius, "The Village Blacksmith": 

Toiing, -- rejoicing, -- sorrowing,
Onward in life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned his night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou has taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought. 

The rest of the poem is excellent, too, and you should definitely go and read it, but these two just have so much veracity (that means truth, so you know. Gotta love thesaurus.com. I was just thinking "truth" has been used too much already, but really it's still applicable.) It lends itself to a really good mental image, too. 

Or, If not, here's a pretty bangin visual aid

Alright. I'll restrain myself from anything else. But seriously, can't you just feel those words as you read them? Doesn't it touch your heart? It  certainly does mine. I could go on, but I feel like all I've been doing is gushing anyway. You really should go read some of his work, though. It's a balm for the soul and a joy to the heart, and for those of you who get excited about vocabulary like me(at least I'm hoping that's not just me), there's that, too. :) There's more to say, I'm positive, but that's all I have for now. Go and read, my dears . . . 

P.S. Any poet you just adore?

Also, I mentioned this, but dang, I feel like such a nerd... can't say I'm sorry for that, though. :) hehe. Anyway, have a delightful time until we meet (um, well, sort of ) again.