Saturday, June 28, 2008

Saturday Poetry

image from

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)


Mezzo Cummin

Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The asperations of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,--
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights,--
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.

1 comment:

Brigid said...

And another cheery thought about getting older . .

"Forty-five is the age of recklessness for many men, as if in defiance of the decay and death waiting with open arms at the sinister valley at the bottom of the inevitable hill."

--Joseph Conrad, Victory

Now I see why this fellow wrote a book called Heart of Darkness. I'll bet he was a fun date.

The irony? He lived to be 67 so he had 22 years to mope around thinking he was a rotting bag of peat moss heading for Potter's Field.

Even my favorite, Mark Twain, had this to say:

"The first half of life consists of the capacity to enjoy without the chance; the last half consists of the chance without the capacity."

Gee, no wonder Huck left in the raft.

Thanks again for the link.