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

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

The Four Princesses At Wilna - A Photograph

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

Bayard Taylor

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

Rain In Summer

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

Cadenabbia - Lake Of Como

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

English

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Il Ponte Vecchio Di Firenze

Gaddi mi fece; il Ponte Vecchio sono;
    Cinquecent' anni gia sull' Arno pianto
    Il piede, come il suo Michele Santo
    Pianto sul draco.    Mentre ch' io ragiono
Lo vedo torcere con flebil suono
    Le rilucenti scaglie.    Ha questi affranto
    Due volte i miei maggior.    Me solo intanto
    Neppure muove, ed io non l' abbandono.
Io mi rammento quando fur cacciati
    I Medici; pur quando Ghibellino
    E Guelfo fecer pace mi rammento.
Fiorenza i suoi giojelli m' ha prestati;
    E quando penso ch' Agnolo il divino
    Su me posava, insuperbir mi sento.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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

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

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

The Bridge Of Cloud

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken
    Pleasant visions, as of old!
Though the house by winds be shaken,
    Safe I keep this room of gold!

Ah, no longer wizard Fancy
    Builds her castles in the air,
Luring me by necromancy
    Up the never-ending stair!

But, instead, she builds me bridges
    Over many a dark ravine,
Where beneath the gusty ridges
    Cataracts dash and roar unseen.

And I cross them, little heeding
    Blast of wind or torrent's roar,
As I follow the receding
    Footsteps that have gone before.

Naught avails the imploring gesture,
    Naught avails the cry of pain!
When I touch the flying vesture,
    'T is the gray robe of the rain.

Baffled I return, and, leaning
    O'er the parapets ...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Monte Cassino - Terra Di Lavoro

Beautiful valley! through whose verdant meads
    Unheard the Garigliano glides along;--
The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds,
    The river taciturn of classic song.

The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest,
    Where mediaeval towns are white on all
The hillsides, and where every mountain's crest
    Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall.

There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface
    Was dragged with contumely from his throne;
Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgrace
    The Pontiff's only, or in part thine own?

There is Ceprano, where a renegade
    Was each Apulian, as great Dante saith,
When Manfred by his men-at-arms betrayed
    Spurred on to Benevento and to death.

There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town,
    Where Juvenal was born, w...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow