Vox Populi

When Mazarvan the Magician,
    Journeyed westward through Cathay,
Nothing heard he but the praises
    Of Badoura on his way.

But the lessening rumor ended
    When he came to Khaledan,
There the folk were talking only
    Of Prince Camaralzaman,

So it happens with the poets:
    Every province hath its own;
Camaralzaman is famous
    Where Badoura is unknown.

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 Rainy Day

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

Castles In Spain

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

Divina Commedia

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

The Revenge Of Rain-In-The-Face

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Nomads

    From the shores of the Atlantic to the gardens of Japan,
    From the darkness of the Neva to the courts of Ispahan,
    There is nothing that can hold us, hold our wandering caravan.

    Leisurely is our encamping; nowhere pause in hasty flight.
    Long enough to learn the secret, and the value, and the might,
    Whether of the northern mountains or the southern lands of light.

    And the riches of the regions will be ours from land to land,
    Falling as a wiling booty under our marauding hand,
    Rugs from Persia, gods from China, emeralds from Samarcand!

    And the old forgotten empires, which have faded turn by turn,
    From the shades emerging slowly to their ancient sway return,
    And to their imperial manhood rise the ashes from the urn.

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

Oliver Basselin

In the Valley of the Vire
    Still is seen an ancient mill,
With its gables quaint and queer,
    And beneath the window-sill,
            On the stone,
            These words alone:
"Oliver Basselin lived here."

Far above it, on the steep,
    Ruined stands the old Chateau;
Nothing but the donjon-keep
    Left for shelter or for show.
            Its vacant eyes
            Stare at the skies,
Stare at the valley green and deep.

Once a convent, old and brown,
    Looked, but ah! it looks no more,
From the neighboring hillside down
    On the rushing and the roar
            Of the stream
            Whose sunny gleam
Cheers the little Norman town.

In that darksome mill of stone,
    To the water's dash and din...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Travels By The Fireside

The ceaseless rain is falling fast,
    And yonder gilded vane,
Immovable for three days past,
    Points to the misty main,

It drives me in upon myself
    And to the fireside gleams,
To pleasant books that crowd my shelf,
    And still more pleasant dreams,

I read whatever bards have sung
    Of lands beyond the sea,
And the bright days when I was young
    Come thronging back to me.

In fancy I can hear again
    The Alpine torrent's roar,
The mule-bells on the hills of Spain,
    The sea at Elsinore.

I see the convent's gleaming wall
    Rise from its groves of pine,
And towers of old cathedrals tall,
    And castles by the Rhine.

I journey on by park and spire,
    Beneath centennial trees,
Throug...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

An Eastern Apologue.

(To E. H. P.)


Melik the Sultán, tired and wan,
Nodded at noon on his diván.

Beside the fountain lingered near
JAMÍL the bard, and the vizier--

Old YÚSUF, sour and hard to please;
Then JAMÍL sang, in words like these.

Slim is Butheina--slim is she
As boughs of the Aráka tree!

"Nay," quoth the other, teeth between,
"Lean, if you will,--I call her lean."

Sweet is Butheina--sweet as wine,
With smiles that like red bubbles shine!

"True,--by the Prophet!" YÚSUF said,
"She makes men wander in the head!"

Dear is Butheina--ah! more dear
Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!

"Dear," came the answer, quick as thought,
"Dear ... and yet always to be bought."

So JAMÍL ceased. But still Life's page...

Henry Austin Dobson

Belisarius

I am poor and old and blind;
The sun burns me, and the wind
    Blows through the city gate
And covers me with dust
From the wheels of the august
    Justinian the Great.

It was for him I chased
The Persians o'er wild and waste,
    As General of the East;
Night after night I lay
In their camps of yesterday;
    Their forage was my feast.

For him, with sails of red,
And torches at mast-head,
    Piloting the great fleet,
I swept the Afric coasts
And scattered the Vandal hosts,
    Like dust in a windy street.

For him I won again
The Ausonian realm and reign,
    Rome and Parthenope;
And all the land was mine
From the summits of Apennine
    To the shores of either sea.

For him, in my feeble age,

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Moallaka

The poets have muddied all the little fountains.

Yet do not my strong eyes know you, far house?

O dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa,
Speak to me, for my camel and I salute you.

My camel is as tall as a tower, and I make him stand
And give my aching heart to the wind of the desert.

O erstwhile dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa;
And my tribe in the valleys of Hazn and Samna
And in the valley of Motethalem!

Salute to the old ruins, the lonely ruins
Since Oum El Aythan gathered and went away.

Now is the dwelling of Abla
In a valley of men who roar like lions.
It will be hard to come to you, O daughter of Makhram.

            *            *            *            *            *

Abla is a green rush
That fee...

Edward Powys Mathers