Meditações - As the clocks were striking the hour...

The bridge

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 since then.

 

I see the long procession

   Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,

   And the old subdued and slow!

 

And forever and forever,

   As long as the river flows,

As long as the heart has passions,

   As long as life has woes;

 

The moon and its broken reflection

   And its shadows shall appear,

As the symbol of love in heaven,

   And its wavering image here.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow