LONGFELLOW. br br WITH a glory of winter sunshine br Over his locks of gray, br In the old historic mansion br He sat on his last birthday; br br With his books and his pleasant pictures, br And his household and his kin, br While a sound as of myriads singing br From far and near stole in. br br It came from his own fair city, br From the prairie's boundless plain, br From the Golden Gate of sunset, br And the cedarn woods of Maine. br br And his heart grew warm within him, br And his moistening eyes grew dim, br For he knew that his country's children br Were singing the songs of him, br br The lays of his life's glad morning, br The psalms of his evening time, br Whose echoes shall float forever br On the winds of every clime. br br All their beautiful consolations, br Sent forth like birds of cheer, br Came flocking back to his windows, br And sang in the Poet's ear. br br Grateful, but solemn and tender, br The music rose and fell br With a joy akin to sadness br And a greeting like farewell. br br With a sense of awe he listened br To the voices sweet and young; br The last of earth and the first of heaven br Seemed in the songs they sung.