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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - On The Terrace Of The Aigalades. (From The French Of Méry)
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From this high portal, where upsprings 
The rose to touch our hands in play, 
We at a glance behold three things-- 
The Sea, the Town, and the Highway. 

And the Sea says: My shipwrecks fear; 
I drown my best friends in the deep; 
And those who braved icy tempests, here 
Among my sea-weeds lie asleep! 

The Town says: I am filled and fraught 
With tumult and with smoke and care; 
My days with toil are overwrought, 
And in my nights I gasp for air. 

The Highway says: My wheel-tracks guide 
To the pale climates of the North; 
Where my last milestone stands abide 
The people to their death gone forth. 

Here, in the shade, this life of ours, 
Full of delicious air, glides by 
Amid a multitude of flowers 
As countless as the stars on high; 

These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil, 
Bathed with an azure all divine, 
Where springs the tree that gives us oil, 
The grape that giveth us the wine; 

Beneath these mountains stripped of trees, 
Whose tops with flowers are covered o`er, 
Where springtime of the Hesperides 
Begins, but endeth nevermore; 

Under these leafy vaults and walls, 
That unto gentle sleep persuade; 
This rainbow of the waterfalls, 
Of mingled mist and sunshine made; 

Upon these shores, where all invites, 
We live our languid life apart; 
This air is that of life`s delights, 
The festival of sense and heart; 

This limpid space of time prolong, 
Forget to-morrow in to-day, 
And leave unto the passing throng 
The Sea, the Town, and the Highway
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