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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409653" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Prelude</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The evening came; the golden vane<br>A moment in the sunset glanced,<br>Then darkened, and then gleamed again,<br>As from the east the moon advanced<br>And touched it with a softer light;<br>While underneath, with flowing mane,<br>Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced,<br>And galloped forth into the night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But brighter than the afternoon<br>That followed the dark day of rain,<br>And brighter than the golden vane<br>That glistened in the rising moon,<br>Within the ruddy fire-light gleamed;<br>And every separate window-pane,<br>Backed by the outer darkness, showed<br>A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed<br>And flickered to and fro, and seemed<br>A bonfire lighted in the road.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Amid the hospitable glow,<br>Like an old actor on the stage,<br>With the uncertain voice of age,<br>The singing chimney chanted low<br>The homely songs of long ago.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The voice that Ossian heard of yore,<br>When midnight winds were in his hall;<br>A ghostly and appealing call,<br>A sound of days that are no more!<br>And dark as Ossian sat the Jew,<br>And listened to the sound, and knew<br>The passing of the airy hosts,<br>The gray and misty cloud of ghosts<br>In their interminable flight;<br>And listening muttered in his beard,<br>With accent indistinct and weird,<br>'Who are ye, children of the Night?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beholding his mysterious face,<br>'Tell me,' the gay Sicilian said,<br>'Why was it that in breaking bread<br>At supper, you bent down your head<br>And, musing, paused a little space,<br>As one who says a silent grace?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Jew replied, with solemn air,<br>'I said the Manichaean's prayer.<br>It was his faith,--perhaps is mine,--<br>That life in all its forms is one,<br>And that its secret conduits run<br>Unseen, but in unbroken line,<br>From the great fountain-head divine<br>Through man and beast, through grain and grass.<br>Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry,<br>From death there can be no escape,<br>And no escape from life, alas<br>Because we cannot die, but pass<br>From one into another shape:<br>It is but into life we die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Therefore the Manichaean said<br>This simple prayer on breaking bread,<br>Lest he with hasty hand or knife<br>Might wound the incarcerated life,<br>The soul in things that we call dead:<br>'I did not reap thee, did not bind thee,<br>I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee,<br>Nor did I in the oven bake thee!<br>It was not I, it was another<br>Did these things unto thee, O brother;<br>I only have thee, hold thee, break thee!''</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'That birds have souls I can concede,'<br>The Poet cried, with glowing cheeks;<br>'The flocks that from their beds of reed<br>Uprising north or southward fly,<br>And flying write upon the sky<br>The biforked letter of the Greeks,<br>As hath been said by Rucellai;<br>All birds that sing or chirp or cry,<br>Even those migratory bands,<br>The minor poets of the air,<br>The plover, peep, and sanderling,<br>That hardly can be said to sing,<br>But pipe along the barren sands,--<br>All these have souls akin to ours;<br>So hath the lovely race of flowers:<br>Thus much I grant, but nothing more.<br>The rusty hinges of a door<br>Are not alive because they creak;<br>This chimney, with its dreary roar,<br>These rattling windows, do not speak!'<br>'To me they speak,' the Jew replied;<br>'And in the sounds that sink and soar,<br>I hear the voices of a tide<br>That breaks upon an unknown shore!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here the Sicilian interfered:<br>'That was your dream, then, as you dozed<br>A moment since, with eyes half-closed,<br>And murmured something in your beard.'<br>The Hebrew smiled, and answered, 'Nay;<br>Not that, but something very near;<br>Like, and yet not the same, may seem<br>The vision of my waking dream;<br>Before it wholly dies away,<br>Listen to me, and you shall hear.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Wadsworth+Longfellow">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409653" data-title="Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Prelude de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="The evening came; the golden vane
A moment in the sunset glanced,
Then darkened, and then gleamed again,
As from the east the moon advanced
And touched it with a softer light;
While underneath, with flowing mane,
Upon the sign the Red Horse prance..."></div>
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