Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Three Friends of Mine lyrics

I When I remember them, those friends of mine, Who are no longer here, the noble three, Who half my life were more than friends to me, And whose discourse was like a generous wine, I most of all remember the divine Something, that shone in them, and made us see The archetypal man, and what might be The amplitude of Nature's first design. In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands; I cannot find them. Nothing now is left But a majestic memory. They meanwhile Wander together in Elysian lands, Perchance remembering me, who am bereft Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile. II In Attica thy birthplace should have been, & Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas & Encircle in their arms the Cyclades, & So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene And childlike joy of life, O Philhellene! & Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees; & Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates, & And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. For thee old legends breathed historic breath; & Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea, & And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold! O, what hadst thou to do with cruel d**h, & Who wast so full of life, or d**h with thee, & That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old! III I stand again on the familiar shore, & And hear the waves of the distracted sea & Piteously calling and lamenting thee, & And waiting restless at thy cottage door. The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean floor, & The willows in the meadow, and the free & Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me; & Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more? Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men & Are busy with their trivial affairs, & Having and holding? Why, when thou hadst read Nature's mysterious man*script, and then & Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, & Why art thou silent! Why shouldst thou be dead? IV River, that stealest with such silent pace & Around the City of the Dead, where lies & A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes & Shall see no more in his accustomed place, Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace & And say good night, for now the western skies & Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise & Like damps that gather on a dead man's face. Good night! good night! as we so oft have said & Beneath this roof at midnight in the days & That are no more, and shall no more return. Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed; & I stay a little longer, as one stays & To cover up the embers that still burn. V The doors are all wide open; at the gate & The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze, & And seem to warm the air; a dreamy haze & Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fate, And on their margin, with sea-tides elate, & The flooded Charles, as in the happier days, & Writes the last letter of his name, and stays & His restless steps, as if compelled to wait. I also wait; but they will come no more, & Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied & The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah me! They have forgotten the pathway to my door! & Something is gone from nature since they died, & And summer is not summer, nor can be.