I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

by Henry W. Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound the carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn, the households born
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

There Comes A Day When Love...

I found this poem in a novel by Grace Livingston Hill, called Lone Point. I've been looking for the author, but cannot find who it is.

There comes a day when Love, that lies asleep,

The fairest island in the mighty deep,

Wakes on our sight;

There do we stay awhile; but soon again

We trim our sails to seek the open main;

And now, whatever winds and waves betide,

Two friendly ships are sailing side by side.

In port of Love 'twas happy to abide,

But, oh! Love's sea is very deep and wide.

I Will Tell Thee What It Is to Love

Love? I will tell thee what it is to love!

It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,

Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;

Where Time seems young, and Life a thing divine.

All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine

To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.

Above, the stars in cloudless beauty shine;

Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss;

And if there's a heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this.

Yes, this is love, the steadfast and the true,

The immortal glory which hath never set;

The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew:

Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet!

O who but can recall the eve they met

To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow?

While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet,

And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow,

And all was rapture then which is but memory now!

Charles Swain

The Day Is Done

The Day is Done

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

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 only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish 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-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As 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 have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

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 day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.