The Vibrant Channeled Creator

The Bridge
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I 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 reflection
      In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
      And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance
      Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
      Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters
      The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
      Seemed 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 rushing
      Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o’er me
      That filled my eyes with tears.

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

How often, O, how often,
      I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom
      O’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 me
      Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,
      It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
      Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river
      On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
      Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands
      Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
      Have crossed the bridge