Quote #1
My first Quote of the Week comes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
"Believe me, every man has his secret sorrows,
which the world knows not; and oftimes
we call a man cold, when he is only sad."
I thought it appropriate to start with this quote because not only is it one of my very favorites, but the 199th anniversary of Longfellow’s birth was Monday, February 27, 2006. I like this quote because it is so very true. Need I say more? LOL
I’m going to write a little about him and include one of his poems (my favorite!). I’ll try not to make it too school paperish. LOL
Longfellow is most often remembered for his optimistic and sentimental works of historical Americana. The titles that spring immediately into the minds of most modern readers include “Paul Revere’s Ride,” and those of the narrative poems: The Song of Hiawatha and The Courtship of Miles Standish; all of which share early American settings and a tinge of romanticism. But few seem to remember that he was a world traveler and scholar and a master of languages, speaking French, Spanish, Italian, and German, as well as English. He wrote many poems set in other countries using their literary styles, and even translated into English Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy, for which he wrote three original sonnets to preface the three main sections.
Contemporaries seemed to agree that Longfellow was intelligent, imaginative and a lovingly devoted family man. It was his family that would contribute the tragedy as well as the loving support to his life.
The man knew a lot about sorrow, secret or not.
Both of Longfellow’s marriages ended sadly, especially the second:
His first wife, Mary Potter, died on November 29, 1835 after suffering a miscarriage while traveling in the Netherlands. They had been married 4 years.
His second wife, Frances (Fanny) Appleton, with whom he shared 18 happy years and six cherished children, died tragically on July 9, 1861 after being fatally burned. It was this that plunged him into unfathomable sorrow.
Fanny and Longfellow had married on July 13, 1843, after a seven year courtship, that had begun a few months after his first wife’s death. They were exceedingly devoted to one another and their family.
On the afternoon of July 9, 1861 Fanny was using sealing wax to close little packets containing locks of hair taken from each of their six children. While melting the wax her dress suddenly caught fire. Panicked, she ran to Longfellow in the next room. He tried in vain to extinguish the flames using a rug and even his hands, severely burning his face in the attempt. Fanny died the early the next morning, and was buried on the 13th of July, their 18th wedding anniversary.
Longfellow was inconsolable. He secreted himself away in his home, and grew the great white beard we all recognize. The scars on his face were unsightly and made it uncomfortable for him to shave.
It was nearly a year later when he began work on his translation of The Divine Comedy.
He slowly drew out of the initial grief and immersed himself in the family that he a Fanny had built. But he never let her go. He died 21 years later on March 22, 1882.
The most powerful poem I have ever read was written by Longfellow 18 years after the tragic death of his beloved Fanny. 18 being the same number of years they had been married. It’s called “The Cross of Snow.”
I’m not sure I can speak coherently about this poem, so I’m not even going to try. I cry each and every time I read it. I’m not sure how he manages to give me, someone who has, surely, never experienced that kind of grief, an ache of sympathy. He was truly talented to communicate like that. It amazes me.
The imagery, the concise language, the deep, deep sorrow conveyed…
This poem is what all poetry should strive to be. Powerful.
This poem, to me, is perfection.
The Cross of Snow
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face-the face of one long dead-
Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.