POEM OF THE DAY : THE POET'S CALENDAR - LONGFELLOW

JANUARY

    Janus am I; oldest of potentates;
        Forward I look, and backward, and below
    I count, as god of avenues and gates,
        The years that through my portals come and go.
    I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow;
    I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen;
    My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow,
    My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men.


    FEBRUARY

    I am lustration, and the sea is mine.
        I wash the sands and headlands with my tide;
    My brow is crowned with branches of the pine;
        Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide.
    By me all things unclean are purified,
        By me the souls of men washed white again;
    E'en the unlovely tombs of those who died
        Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain.


    MARCH

    I Martius am!    Once first, and now the third!
        To lead the Year was my appointed place;
    A mortal dispossessed me by a word,
        And set there Janus with the double face.
    Hence I make war on all the human race;
        I shake the cities with my hurricanes;
    I flood the rivers and their banks efface,
        And drown the farms and hamlets with my rains.


    APRIL

    I open wide the portals of the Spring
        To welcome the procession of the flowers,
    With their gay banners, and the birds that sing
        Their song of songs from their aerial towers.
    I soften with my sunshine and my showers
        The heart of earth; with thoughts of love I glide
    Into the hearts of men; and with the Hours
        Upon the Bull with wreathed horns I ride.


    MAY

    Hark!    The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim
        My coming, and the swarming of the bees.
    These are my heralds, and behold! my name
        Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees.
    I tell the mariner when to sail the seas;
        I waft o'er all the land from far away
    The breath and bloom of the Hesperides,
        My birthplace.    I am Maia.    I am May.


    JUNE

    Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine
        The Month of Marriages!    All pleasant sights
    And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine,
        The foliage of the valleys and the heights.
    Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights;
        The mower's scythe makes music to my ear;
    I am the mother of all dear delights;
        I am the fairest daughter of the year.


    JULY

    My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe
        The breath of Libyan deserts o'er the land;
    My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe,
        And bent before me the pale harvests stand.
    The lakes and rivers shrink at my command,
        And there is thirst and fever in the air;
    The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand;
        I am the Emperor whose name I bear.


    AUGUST

    The Emperor Octavian, called the August,
        I being his favorite, bestowed his name
    Upon me, and I hold it still in trust,
        In memory of him and of his fame.
    I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame
        Burns less intensely than the Lion's rage;
    Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim
        The golden Harvests as my heritage.


    SEPTEMBER

    I bear the Scales, where hang in equipoise
        The night and day; and when unto my lips
    I put my trumpet, with its stress and noise
        Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships;
    The tree-tops lash the air with sounding whips;
        Southward the clamorous sea-fowl wing their flight;
    The hedges are all red with haws and hips,
        The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of the night.


    OCTOBER

    My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves,
        Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed;
    I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves,
        O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside.
    Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride,
        The dreamy air is full, and overflows
    With tender memories of the summer-tide,
        And mingled voices of the doves and crows.

    NOVEMBER

    The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I,
        Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace;
    With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly,
        A steed Thessalian with a human face.
    Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase
        The leaves, half dead already with affright;
    I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race
        Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight.


    DECEMBER

    Riding upon the Goat, with snow-white hair,
        I come, the last of all.    This crown of mine
    Is of the holly; in my hand I bear
        The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine.
    I celebrate the birth of the Divine,
        And the return of the Saturnian reign;--
    My songs are carols sung at every shrine,
        Proclaiming "Peace on earth, good will to men."

Poem of the day-85: "Footsteps of Angels" by Longfellow

When the hours of Day are numbered
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!

Poem of the day-83: "Hymn to the Night" by Longfellow

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might.
Stoop over me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night
Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there.
From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care.
And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair.
The best-beloved Night!

Poem of the day-82: "God's Acre" by Longfellow

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison over the sleeping dust.

God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the arch-angel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God.
This is the place, where human harvests grow!

Poem of the day-67: "God's Acre" by Longfellow

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison over the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more of their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the arch-angel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God.
This is the place, where human harvests grow.

Poem of the day-6: 'Daybreak'

Daybreak

A wind came up out of the sea,
And said, “O mists, make room for me.”
It hailed the ships, and cried: “Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone.”
And hurried landward far away,
Crying: “Awake! It is the day.”
It said unto the forest: “Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!”
It touched the woodbird’s folded wing,
And said: “O bird, awake and sing!”
And o’er the farms: “O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow: “the day is near.”
It whispered to the fields of corn:
“Bow down, and hail the coming morn.”
It shouted through the belfry tower:
“Awake, O bell, proclaim the hour!”
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said: “Not yet; in quiet lie.”

- H.W.Longfellow