Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Iron Pen

I thought this Pen would arise From the casket where it lies—        &nbsp Of itself would arise and write My thanks and my surprise. When you gave it me under the pines, I dreamed these gems from the mines        &nbsp Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines; That this iron link from the chain Of Bonnivard might retain        &nbsp Some verse of the Poet who sang Of the prisoner and his pain; That this wood from the frigate's mast Might write me a rhyme at last,        &nbsp As it used to write on the sky The song of the sea and the blast. But motionless as I wait, Like a Bishop lying in state        &nbsp Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold, And its jewels inviolate. Then must I speak, and say That the light of that summer day        &nbsp In the garden under the pines Shall not fade and pass away. I shall see you standing there, Caressed by the fragrant air,        &nbsp With the shadow on your face, And the sunshine on your hair. I shall hear the sweet low tone Of a voice before unknown,        &nbsp Saying, "This is from me to you— From me, and to you alone." And in words not idle and vain I shall answer and thank you again        &nbsp For the gift, and the grace of the gift, O beautiful Helen of Maine! And forever this gift will be As a blessing from you to me,        &nbsp As a drop of the dew of your youth On the leaves of an aged tree.