Finale
These are the tales those merry guestsTold to each other, well or ill;Like summer birds that lift their crestsAbove the borders of their nestsAnd twitter, and again are still.
These are the tales, or new or old,In idle moments idly told;Flowers of the field with petals thin,Lilies that neither toil nor spin,And tufts of wayside weeds and gorseHung in the parlor of the innBeneath the sign of the Red Horse.
And still, reluctant to retire,The friends sat talking by the fireAnd watched the smouldering embers burnTo ashes, and flash up againInto a momentary glow,Lingering like them when forced to go,And going when they would remain;For on the morrow they must turnTheir faces homeward, and the painOf parting touched with its unrestA tender nerve in every breast.
But sleep at last the victory won;They must be stirring with the sun,And drowsily good night they said,And went still gossiping to bed,And left the parlor wrapped in gloom.The only live thing in the roomWas the old clock, that in its paceKept time with the revolving spheresAnd constellations in their flight,And struck with its uplifted maceThe dark, unconscious hours of night,To senseless and unlistening ears.
Uprose the sun; and every guest,Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressedFor journeying home and city-ward;The old stage-coach was at the door,With horses harnessed, long beforeThe sunshine reached the withered swardBeneath the oaks, whose branches hoarMurmured: "Farewell forevermore."
"Farewell!" the portly Landlord cried;"Farewell!" the parting guests replied,But little thought that nevermoreTheir feet would pass that threshold o'er;That nevermore together thereWould they assemble, free from care,To hear the oaks' mysterious roar,And breathe the wholesome country air.
Where are they now? What lands and skiesPaint pictures in their friendly eyes?What hope deludes, what promise cheers,What pleasant voices fill their ears?Two are beyond the salt sea waves,And three already in their graves.Perchance the living still may lookInto the pages of this book,And see the days of long agoFloating and fleeting to and fro,As in the well-remembered brookThey saw the inverted landscape gleam,And their own faces like a dreamLook up upon them from below.
Words in this poem
- twitter n.
- One who twits, or reproaches; an upbraider. [From Twit.]
- wayside n.
- The side of the way; the edge or border of a road or path.
- gorse n.
- Furze. See Furze. [OE. & AS. gorst; perh. akin to E. grow, grass.]
- smouldering a.
- Being in a state of suppressed activity; quiet but not dead.
- homeward a.
- Being in the direction of home; as, the homeward way.
- unrest n.
- Want of rest or repose; unquietness; sleeplessness; uneasiness; disquietude.
- drowsily adv.
- In a drowsy manner.
- went n.
- Course; way; path; journey; direction.
- sunshine n.
- The light of the sun, or the place where it shines; the direct rays of the sun, the place where they fall, or the warmth and light which they give.
- hoar v. t.
- To become moldy or musty. [AS. harian to grow gray.]
- portly a.
- Having a dignified port or mien; of a noble appearance; imposing. [From Port demeanor.]
- nevermore adv.
- Never again; at no time hereafter. Testament of Love. Tyndale.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Finale is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Project Gutenberg ebook #1365; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Finale, in The Complete Poetical Works (1839–1882), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #1365, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/longfellow-poems/finale-3.html, id L17705.
Form and metre
Finale is 65 lines in 7 verse paragraphs. It is in rhyming couplets, 52% of the lines: octosyllabic couplets. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 90%). 92% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.3 syllables. 1 line ends on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 40% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in octosyllabic couplets, other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 ABAAB guestsA · illB · crestsA · nestsA · stillB
- 2 AABBCBC oldA · toldA · thinB · spinB · gorseC · innB · horseC
- 3 AABCDDCBCEE retireA · fireA · burnB · againC · glowD · goD · remainC · turnB · painC · unrestE · breastE
- 4 AABBCCDEFDFE wonA · sunA · saidB · bedB · gloomC · roomC · paceD · spheresE · flightF · maceD · nightF · earsE
- 5 AABCCBCC guestA · dressedA · wardB · doorC · beforeC · swardB · hoarC · forevermoreC
- 6 AAB-CCBC criedA · repliedA · nevermoreB · o'er · thereC · careC · roarB · airC
- 7 AABBCCDDEEDFFE skiesA · eyesA · cheersB · earsB · wavesC · gravesC · lookD · bookD · agoE · froE · brookD · gleamF · dreamF · belowE
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| These are the tales those merry guests | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Told to each other, well or ill; | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Like summer birds that lift their crests | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Above the borders of their nests | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| And twitter, and again are still. | 8 | ·/˘·˘/·· |
| These are the tales, or new or old, | 8 | ········ |
| In idle moments idly told; | 8 | ·/˘/˘/˘· |
| Flowers of the field with petals thin, | 8 | /····/˘· |
| Lilies that neither toil nor spin, | 8 | /˘·/˘··· |
| And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse | 8 | ···/···· |
| Hung in the parlor of the inn | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Beneath the sign of the Red Horse. | 8 | ········ |
| And still, reluctant to retire, | 8 | ··˘/˘·˘/ |
| The friends sat talking by the fire | 9 | ···/˘··/˘ |
| And watched the smouldering embers burn | 9 | ······/˘· |
| To ashes, and flash up again | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
| Into a momentary glow, | 8 | ···/˘·˘· |
| Lingering like them when forced to go, | 8 | /˘······ |
| And going when they would remain; | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
| For on the morrow they must turn | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Their faces homeward, and the pain | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| Of parting touched with its unrest | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
| A tender nerve in every breast. | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| But sleep at last the victory won; | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| They must be stirring with the sun, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| And drowsily good night they said, | 8 | ·/˘˘···· |
| And went still gossiping to bed, | 8 | ···/˘˘·· |
| And left the parlor wrapped in gloom. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| The only live thing in the room | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Was the old clock, that in its pace | 8 | ········ |
| Kept time with the revolving spheres | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| And constellations in their flight, | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| And struck with its uplifted mace | 8 | ····/˘˘· |
| The dark, unconscious hours of night, | 8 | ···/˘/·· |
| To senseless and unlistening ears. | 9 | ·/˘······ |
| Uprose the sun; and every guest, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed | 9 | ·····˘/·· |
| For journeying home and city-ward; | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| The old stage-coach was at the door, | 8 | ········ |
| With horses harnessed, long before | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| The sunshine reached the withered sward | 8 | ·/···/˘· |
| Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Murmured: "Farewell forevermore." | 8 | /˘·/···· |
| "Farewell!" the portly Landlord cried; | 8 | ·/·/˘/·· |
| "Farewell!" the parting guests replied, | 8 | ·/·/˘·˘/ |
| But little thought that nevermore | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Their feet would pass that threshold o'er; | 8 | ·····/·· |
| That nevermore together there | 8 | ·/˘·˘/˘· |
| Would they assemble, free from care, | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| To hear the oaks' mysterious roar, | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| And breathe the wholesome country air. | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| Where are they now? What lands and skies | 8 | ········ |
| Paint pictures in their friendly eyes? | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| What hope deludes, what promise cheers, | 8 | ··˘/·/˘· |
| What pleasant voices fill their ears? | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| Two are beyond the salt sea waves, | 8 | ········ |
| And three already in their graves. | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| Perchance the living still may look | 8 | ˘/·/˘··· |
| Into the pages of this book, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| And see the days of long ago | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Floating and fleeting to and fro, | 8 | /˘·/˘··· |
| As in the well-remembered brook | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| They saw the inverted landscape gleam, | 9 | ···˘/˘/·· |
| And their own faces like a dream | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Look up upon them from below. | 8 | ········ |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.