Poem By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom,
With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes,
Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise,
Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.
Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom;
Yet in thy heart what human sympathies,
What soft compassion glows, as in the skies
The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!
Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks,
By Fra Hilario in his diocese,
As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks,
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease;
And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks,
Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"

Comments about Dante

about my Italian translation of '' the realms of gloom, '' I did prefer translating '' i regni della malinconia, '' and not '' dell'oscurità'', for 'LA DIVINA COMMEDIA' is a journey through darkness and light (from INFERNO to PARADISE)
''Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, '' - here is the ITALIAN translation of these lovely opening lines: ''O Toscano, che vaghi per i regni della malinconia, Con passo pensoso, e tristi e maestosi occhi, '' - Tuscan: Dante was from Florence, Tuscany-
Ah, my friend, peace is what is precious since time immemorial. To which I might add: Softly I tread, greatly I fear: For loved are the ones who are so near. The dead are at rest apart from us: Peace be with those who follow them thus..... (As a fellow poet to HWL)

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Other poems of LONGFELLOW

A Psalm Of Life

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

A Gleam Of Sunshine

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,
Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past
The forms that once have been.

The Arrow And The Song

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.


Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!

Arsenal At Springfield, The

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But front their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.

A Song Of Savoy

As the dim twilight shrouds
The mountain's purple crest,
And Summer's white and folded clouds