Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Hawthorne

How beautiful it was, that one bright day        &nbsp In the long week of rain! Though all its splendor could not chase away        &nbsp The omnipresent pain. The lovely town was white with apple-blooms,        &nbsp And the great elms o'erhead Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms        &nbsp Shot through with golden thread. Across the meadows, by the gray old manse,        &nbsp The historic river flowed: I was as one who wanders in a trance,        &nbsp Unconscious of his road. The faces of familiar friends seemed strange;        &nbsp Their voices I could hear, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change        &nbsp Their meaning to my ear. For the one face I looked for was not there,        &nbsp The one low voice was mute; Only an unseen presence filled the air,        &nbsp And baffled my pursuit. Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream        &nbsp Dimly my thought defines; I only see—a dream within a dream—        &nbsp The hill-top hearsed with pines. I only hear above his place of rest        &nbsp Their tender undertone, The infinite longings of a troubled breast,        &nbsp The voice so like his own. There in seclusion and remote from men        &nbsp The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,        &nbsp And left the tale half told. Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,        &nbsp And the lost clew regain? The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower        &nbsp Unfinished must remain!