THE BRIDGEBy Henry Wadsworth LongfellowI STOOD on the bridge at midnight,As the clocks were striking the hour,And the moon rose o’er the city,Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflectionIn the waters under me,Like a golden goblet fallingAnd sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distanceOf that lovely night in June,The blaze of the flaming furnaceGleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black raftersThe wavering shadows lay,And the current that came from the oceanSeemed to lift and bear them away;As, sweeping and eddying through them,Rose the belated tide,And, streaming into the moonlight,The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushingAmong the wooden piers,A flood of thoughts came o’er meThat filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh how often,In the days that had gone by,I had stood on that bridge at midnightAnd gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, oh how often,I had wished that the ebbing tideWould bear me away on its bosomO’er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,And my life was full of care,And the burden laid upon meSeemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,It is buried in the sea;And only the sorrow of othersThrows its shadow over me,Yet whenever I cross the riverOn its bridge with wooden piers,Like the odor of brine from the oceanComes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousandsOf care-encumbered men,Each bearing his burden of sorrow,Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long processionStill passing to and fro,The young heart hot and restless,And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,As long as the river flows,As long as the heart has passions,As long as life has woes;The moon and its broken reflectionAnd its shadows shall appear,As the symbol of love in heaven,And its wavering image here.

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