TO SUFFER & BE STRONG? SUBLIME!

To my many bloggy friends near and far who are seeking strength right now (no matter the reason or the season), I dug up some right fine wisdom from the right and honorable (and always inspiring) Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Though both of these poems may be familiar to many, I don't recall ever reading them before. When viewed through the veil of grief or cancer, they are especially poignant. Both were written in the 1830s.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  THE LIGHT OF STARS  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

THE NIGHT is come, but not too soon;  And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? Oh no! from that blue tent above A hero's armor gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light But the cold light of stars; I give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars. The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know erelong, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  A PSALM OF LIFE by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) TELL ME not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, — act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.