Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Three Friends of Mine

I When I remember them, those friends of mine,          Who are no longer here, the noble three,          Who half my life were more than friends to me,          And whose discourse was like a generous wine, I most of all remember the divine          Something, that shone in them, and made us see          The archetypal man, and what might be          The amplitude of Nature's first design. In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands;          I cannot find them. Nothing now is left          But a majestic memory. They meanwhile Wander together in Elysian lands,          Perchance remembering me, who am bereft          Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile. II In Attica thy birthplace should have been,        &  Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas        &  Encircle in their arms the Cyclades,        &  So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene And childlike joy of life, O Philhellene!        &  Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees;        &  Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates,        &  And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. For thee old legends breathed historic breath;        &  Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea,        &  And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold! O, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death,        &  Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee,        &  That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old! III I stand again on the familiar shore,        &  And hear the waves of the distracted sea        &  Piteously calling and lamenting thee,        &  And waiting restless at thy cottage door. The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean floor,        &  The willows in the meadow, and the free        &  Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me;        &  Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more? Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men        &  Are busy with their trivial affairs,        &  Having and holding? Why, when thou hadst read Nature's mysterious manuscript, and then        &  Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears,        &  Why art thou silent! Why shouldst thou be dead? IV River, that stealest with such silent pace        &  Around the City of the Dead, where lies        &  A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes        &  Shall see no more in his accustomed place, Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace        &  And say good night, for now the western skies        &  Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise        &  Like damps that gather on a dead man's face. Good night! good night! as we so oft have said        &  Beneath this roof at midnight in the days        &  That are no more, and shall no more return. Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed;        &  I stay a little longer, as one stays        &  To cover up the embers that still burn. V The doors are all wide open; at the gate        &  The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze,        &  And seem to warm the air; a dreamy haze        &  Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fate, And on their margin, with sea-tides elate,        &  The flooded Charles, as in the happier days,        &  Writes the last letter of his name, and stays        &  His restless steps, as if compelled to wait. I also wait; but they will come no more,        &  Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied        &  The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah me! They have forgotten the pathway to my door!        &  Something is gone from nature since they died,        &  And summer is not summer, nor can be.