Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Wind over the Chimney

See, the fire is sinking low, Dusky red the embers glow,        &nbsp While above them still I cower, While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger,        &nbsp Points beyond the midnight hour. Sings the blackened log a tune Learned in some forgotten June        &nbsp From a school-boy at his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather        &nbsp Making all their holiday. And the night-wind rising, hark! How above there in the dark,        &nbsp In the midnight and the snow, Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, Like the trumpets of Iskander,        &nbsp All the noisy chimneys blow! Every quivering tongue of flame Seems to murmur some great name,        &nbsp Seems to say to me, "Aspire!" But the night-wind answers, "Hollow Are the visions that you follow,        &nbsp Into darkness sinks your fire!" Then the flicker of the blaze Gleams on volumes of old days,        &nbsp Written by masters of the art, Loud through whose majestic pages Rolls the melody of ages,        &nbsp Throb the harp-strings of the heart. And again the tongues of flame Start exulting and exclaim:        &nbsp "These are prophets, bards, and seers; In the horoscope of nations, Like ascendant constellations,        &nbsp They control the coming years." But the night-wind cries: "Despair! Those who walk with feet of air        &nbsp Leave no long-enduring marks; At God's forges incandescent Mighty hammers beat incessant,        &nbsp These are but the flying sparks. "Dust are all the hands that wrought; Books are sepulchres of thought;        &nbsp The dead laurels of the dead Rustle for a moment only, Like the withered leaves in lonely        &nbsp Churchyards at some passing tread." Suddenly the flame sinks down; Sink the rumors of renown;        &nbsp And alone the night-wind drear Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,— "'T is the brand of Meleager        &nbsp Dying on the hearth-stone here!" And I answer,—"Though it be, Why should that discomfort me?        &nbsp No endeavor is in vain; Its reward is in the doing, And the rapture of pursuing        &nbsp Is the prize the vanquished gain."