NATURE
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

So what can I say about Longfellow that hasn't been said better by others? That he is one of America's best loved poets? That he is the maker of some America's most enduring myths? That he has provided delightful reading for almost ten generations of Americans? That the joy of reading Longfellow has been replaced today for most of America's youth by video games, and that no one knows what the long term consequences of this will be to American culture?

Pardon me, but I am getting old, and I can't help feeling a bit sad that the young people of today are rarely exposed to "The Song of Hiawatha," or "Evangeline," or to the simple enjoyment of reading "Paul Revere's Ride," "The Day is Done," "The Village Blacksmith," or this week's offering, one of my favorite Longfellow poems, "Nature." I truly hope you will enjoy this poem as much as I have over the years. He was one of the great ones.

Nature

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 leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wished to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.


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