Giotto's Tower

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet
    By self-devotion and by self-restraint,
    Whose pleasure is to run without complaint
    On unknown errands of the Paraclete,
Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet,
    Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint
    Around the shining forehead of the saint,
    And are in their completeness incomplete!
In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,
    The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,--
    A vision, a delight, and a desire,--
The builder's perfect and centennial flower,
    That in the night of ages bloomed alone,
    But wanting still the glory of the spire.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was an American poet and educator. He wrote many lyric poems known for their musicality and often presenting stories of mythology and legend. Some of his famous works include "Paul Revere's Ride" and "The Song of Hiawatha." Longfellow was one of the most popular American poets of his time and remains a significant figure in the canon of American literature.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

My Cathedral

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

The Ropewalk

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

The White Czar

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

To The Driving Cloud

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

English

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Divina Commedia

I

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door
    A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
    Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet
    Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;
    Far off the noises of the world retreat;
    The loud vociferations of the street
    Become an undistinguishable roar.
So, as I enter here from day to day,
    And leave my burden at this minster gate,
    Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,
The tumult of the time disconsolate
    To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
    While the eternal ages watch and wait.


II

How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!
    This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves
    Birds build their nests; while ca...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

After Reading Trollope's History Of Florence

My books are on their shelves again
And clouds lie low with mist and rain.
Afar the Arno murmurs low
The tale of fields of melting snow.
List to the bells of times agone
The while I wait me for the dawn.

Beneath great Giotto's Campanile
The gray ghosts throng; their whispers steal
From poets' bosoms long since dust;
They ask me now to go. I trust
Their fleeter footsteps where again
They come at night and live as men.

The rain falls on Ghiberti's gates;
The big drops hang on purple dates;
And yet beneath the ilex-shades--
Dear trysting-place for boys and maids--
There comes a form from days of old,
With Beatrice's hair of gold.

The breath of lands or lilied streams
Floats through the fabric of my dreams;
And yonder from the...

Eugene Field

The Old Bridge At Florence

Taddeo Gaddi built me.    I am old,
    Five centuries old.    I plant my foot of stone
    Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own
    Was planted on the dragon.    Fold by fold
Beneath me as it struggles.    I behold
    Its glistening scales.    Twice hath it overthrown
    My kindred and companions.    Me alone
    It moveth not, but is by me controlled,
I can remember when the Medici
    Were driven from Florence; longer still ago
    The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf.
Florence adorns me with her jewelry;
    And when I think that Michael Angelo
    Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Tower-Room

There is a room serene and fair,
All palpitant with light and air;
Free from the dust, world's noise and fuss -
God's Tower-room in each of us.

Oh! many a stair our feet must press,
And climb from self to selflessness,
Before we reach that radiant room
Above the discord and the gloom.

So many, many stairs to climb,
But mount them gently - take your time;
Rise leisurely, nor strive to run -
Not so the mightiest feats are done.

Well doing of the little things:
Repression of the word that stings;
The tempest of the mind made still
By victory of the God-like will.

The hated task performed in love -
All these are stairs that wind above
The things that trouble and annoy,
Up to the Tower-room of joy.

Rise leisurely; t...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Restlessness.*

Would I had waked this morn where Florence smiles,
A-bloom with beauty, a white rose full-blown,
Yet rich in sacred dust, in storied stone,
Precious past all the wealth of Indian isles -
From olive-hoary Fiesole to feed
On Brunelleschi's dome my hungry eye,
And see against the lotus-colored sky,
Spring the slim belfry graceful as a reed.
To kneel upon the ground where Dante trod,
To breathe the air of immortality
From Angelo and Raphael - TO BE -
Each sense new-quickened by a demi-god.
To hear the liquid Tuscan speech at whiles,
From citizen and peasant, to behold
The heaven of Leonardo washed with gold -
Would I had waked this morn where Florence smile!

Emma Lazarus

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 - XIX. - Effusion

In Presence Of The Painted Tower Of Tell, At Altorf.


What though the Italian pencil wrought not here,
Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow
On Marathonian valour, yet the tear
Springs forth in presence of this gaudy show,
While narrow cares their limits overflow.
Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors old,
Infants in arms, and ye, that as ye go
Homeward or schoolward, ape what ye behold!
Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold!

And when that calm Spectatress from on high
Looks down the bright and solitary Moon,
Who never gazes but to beautify;
And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon
Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune
That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls;
'Then' might the passing Monk receive a boon
Of saintl...

William Wordsworth