Welcome back to The Daily Poem, a podcast from Goldberry Studios. I'm Sean Johnson, and today is Tuesday, February 27th, 2004.

It's also the birthday of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, one of the greatest Americans ever to live in my humble and slightly subjective opinion.

I once heard an anecdote about Longfellow.

I think it was Anthony Esselin who told me this anecdote that one day a group of boys, 11 or 12, were playing,

walking freely, roaming freely through their hometown in ways that maybe aren't possible or

probable anymore. And just as improbable, they were discussing their favorite poets.

One of them remembered that that very day was the birthday of his favorite poet, and that that poet lived in their own town.

So they all thought it would be great fun to go to his house and knock on his door and

wish him a happy birthday.

So they did.

They walked up to the house, knocked on the door, an aged man with a snowy white beard

opened the door, and they wished him a very happy birthday. The man was, of course, Henry

Wadsworth Longfellow, and this would have been one of his last birthdays, but old as he was, he showed a kind of

youthful joy and delight in their visit. He invited them in, served them tea and cookies,

and they chatted about poetry for the afternoon.

I wish we still had people like Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in our midst.

It was probably right around the time of that birthday and that visit that he was composing the poem I'm going to read today.

It's called The Poet and His Songs. It was written, published at least, in 1880, just two years

before his death when he was about 73.

I will read it once, offer a few comments, and then read it one more time.

The Poet and His Songs

As the birds come in the spring, we know not from where. As the stars come at evening, from

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