The Fire Of Drift-Wood


Devereux Farm, Near Marblehead

    We sat within the farm-house old,
        Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,
    Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,
        An easy entrance, night and day.

    Not far away we saw the port,
        The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,
    The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,
        The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

    We sat and talked until the night,
        Descending, filled the little room;
    Our faces faded from the sight,
        Our voices only broke the gloom.

    We spake of many a vanished scene,
        Of what we once had thought and said,
    Of what had been, and might have been,
        And who was changed, and who was dead;

    And all that fills the hearts of friends,
        When first they feel, with secret pain,
    Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
        And never can be one again;

    The first slight swerving of the heart,
        That words are powerless to express,
    And leave it still unsaid in part,
        Or say it in too great excess.

    The very tones in which we spake
        Had something strange, I could but mark;
    The leaves of memory seemed to make
        A mournful rustling in the dark.

    Oft died the words upon our lips,
        As suddenly, from out the fire
    Built of the wreck of stranded ships,
        The flames would leap and then expire.

    And, as their splendor flashed and failed,
        We thought of wrecks upon the main,
    Of ships dismasted, that were hailed
        And sent no answer back again.

    The windows, rattling in their frames,
        The ocean, roaring up the beach,
    The gusty blast, the bickering flames,
        All mingled vaguely in our speech.

    Until they made themselves a part
        Of fancies floating through the brain,
    The long-lost ventures of the heart,
        That send no answers back again.

    O flames that glowed!    O hearts that yearned!
        They were indeed too much akin,
    The drift-wood fire without that burned,
        The thoughts that burned and glowed within.


facebook share button twitter share button google plus share button tumblr share button reddit share button email share button share on pinterest pinterest

Create a library and add your favorite stories. Get started by clicking the "Add" button.
Add The Fire Of Drift-Wood to your own personal library.

Return to the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; The Four Lakes Of Madison

Anton Chekhov
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Susan Glaspell
Mark Twain
Edgar Allan Poe
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
Herman Melville
Stephen Leacock
Kate Chopin
Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson