The Fire of Drift-wood Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Ft. DEVEREUX FARM & NEAR MARBLEHEAD)

We sat within the farm-house old,
        Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,
Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold,
        An easy entrance, night and day.

Not far away we saw the port,
        The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,
The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,
        The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

We sat and talked until the night,
        Descending, filled the little room;
Our faces faded from the sight,
        Our voices only broke the gloom.

We spake of many a vanished scene,
        Of what we once had thought and said,
Of what had been, and might have been,
        And who was changed, and who was dead;

And all that fills the hearts of friends,
        When first they feel, with secret pain,
Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
        And never can be one again;

The first slight swerving of the heart,
        That words are powerless to express,
And leave it still unsaid in part,
        Or say it in too great excess.