Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — From my Arm-Chair

Am I a king, that I should call my own        &nbsp This splendid ebon throne? Or by what reason, or what right divine,        &nbsp Can I proclaim it mine? Only, perhaps, by right divine of song        &nbsp It may to me belong; Only because the spreading chestnut tree        &nbsp Of old was sung by me. Well I remember it in all its prime,        &nbsp When in the summer-time The affluent foliage of its branches made        &nbsp A cavern of cool shade. There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street,        &nbsp Its blossoms white and sweet Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive,        &nbsp And murmured like a hive. And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,        &nbsp Tossed its great arms about, The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,        &nbsp Dropped to the ground beneath. And now some fragments of its branches bare,        &nbsp Shaped as a stately chair, Have by my hearthstone found a home at last,        &nbsp And whisper of the past. The Danish king could not in all his pride        &nbsp Repel the ocean tide, But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme        &nbsp Roll back the tide of Time. I see again, as one in vision sees,        &nbsp The blossoms and the bees, And hear the children's voices shout and call,        &nbsp And the brown chestnuts fall. I see the smithy with its fires aglow,        &nbsp I hear the bellows blow, And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat        &nbsp The iron white with heat! And thus, dear children, have ye made for me        &nbsp This day a jubilee, And to my more than three-score years and ten        &nbsp Brought back my youth again. The heart hath its own memory, like the mind,        &nbsp And in it are enshrined The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought        &nbsp The giver's loving thought. Only your love and your remembrance could        &nbsp Give life to this dead wood, And make these branches, leafless now so long,        &nbsp Blossom again in song.