All language subtitles for i_heard_the_bells

The cannon thundered in the south

And with a sound

the carols drowned

And in

despair I bowed my head

There is no peace on earth, I said.

For hate is strong and mocks the

song of peace on earth.

Let's ring the bell.

I'll do this.

Christ be with you.

Henry Longfellow's in attendance.

Yes, I know.

Christ be with you.

And with you.

Christ be with you, Mr. Longfellow.

And with you.

Christ be with you.

He's always doing that.

He's creepy.

I know.

to us now, Papa?

Not yet, Annie.

When is it?

Longfellow. Yes.

Happy Holy Day, Reverend. Almost missed
America's greatest poet and our most

famous congregant.

Perhaps next year a Christmas message? I
have retired from public speaking.

Oh. Well, perhaps then a Christmas poem?

Perhaps a poem.

Say Merry Christmas, then.

But you said it's not Christmas until we
get past the reference.

Look how magical the snow is, Annie.

Henry and I wish you and your wife a
blessed Christmas, Reverend.

Always lovely to see your entire family
at Christmas service, Fanny. Oh,

my heavens. Well, it was Charles Dickens
who said, it's good to be children

sometimes and never better than at
Christmas when its mighty founder was a

himself.

Perhaps Henry has been corresponding a
little too much with Mr.

Dickens.

Yes, perhaps.

Henry!

Let it be known, I warned my sister
about marrying

Poet.

God bless us, everyone.

Come on, let's go home.

Between the dark and the daylight, when
the night is beginning to lower, comes a

pause in the day's occupations that is
known as the children's hour.

I hear in the chamber above me the
patter.

of little feet. The sound of a door that
is open and voices

soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight
descending the broad hall stair grave

Alice and laughing Allegra and Eden with
golden hair.

Yet I know by their merry eyes they are
plotting and planning together to take

me by surprise. A sudden rush from the
stairway.

A sudden raid from the halls.

By three doors left unguarded, they
enter my castle walls.

They climb up into my turret with the
arms in back of my chair.

If I try to escape, they surround me.
Oh, they seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses. Their
arms about me entwined.

Oh, till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
in his mouse tower on the right.

Oh, do you think, oh blue -eyed
banditti, because you have scaled

the wall, oh, such an old moustache as I
am is not a match for you all.

I have you fast in my fortress.

Oh, and will not let you depart.

But put you down into the dungeon in the
round tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever.

Yes, forever and a day.

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin and
molder in dust away.

Again, Papa, again.

Little Annie Allegra says again, Papa,
again.

And Mama says no, no, no, not again.

Tomorrow, my angel.

And tomorrow has become today.

Is it Christmas now, Papa?

I don't hear anything.

Papa!

Well, the clock strikes midnight, but
it's not Christmas until we hear the

bells. I do hear them. Papa, listen.

Perhaps you're hearing the whistling
wind.

No. Or a foghorn of a distant ship.

Papa, you're teasing us.

Would it help if I open the window?
Guard!

She's the maiden.

Yes.

You know for sure that it is Christmas.
Right?

Do not.

Finally, I have you all to myself.

Let me go, Mr. Longfellow. Oh, it took
me seven long years to convince you that

you love me.

I am never letting you go.

Now, at least put on your coat.

You know, a famous poet once said, love
withstands the cold.

Better than a cloak. Well, poets have
heart but lack brain. Oh, I do not

anyone can be perfectly well that has a
brain and a heart.

And I can say that in eight different
languages.

I saw that.

You're laughing.

They take me to sacred places.

They are ferocious, untamed creatures
who steal our food and steal my wife.

Lots of children.

The bells on Christmas Day.

The hopeful voices of the church ringing
out peace on earth.

Imagine how hopeful it would be if they
were the only voices of the church.

Oh, how delightful to finally see you at
service, Mr. Longfellow.

About that Christmas poem you promised.
Be kind.

Christmas is already a poem, Fanny. It
doesn't need my help.

The Reverend is a good man who brings
goodwill to men.

Yes, I know. However, he's... And he
knows that within his congregation there

a gifted poet, one who could put words
to what we are all feeling during these

trying times.

Everyone says a war is certain.

Is it?

Yes.

Charlie wants to enlist.

He is not of age. There are boys as
young as 15 enlisting, you know that.

but with their father's consent.

I cannot bear the thought of losing
another child.

Henry.

You will not let this war take our sons.

Sammy, you have my promise.

And with Charlie, a boy's will is the
wind's will.

And the faults of you, I know.

Did you see?

They're thieves.

Stealing you away from me once again.

Get back here.

How can you be fully devoted to writing
if you are more fully devoted to reading

your mail?

How am I to know the impact of my
writing if I never read the letters of

admirers?

You were never good at being vain.

Oh.

I suppose I could read your diary
instead.

You will not. No?

To remain humble, I should stay home
tonight.

Instead of being the center of some...
hollow spectacle.

Let me see your hands.

Henry?

Henry! This dinner is a ploy. They are
trying to flatter me into writing some

national song or something of the like.

You should do it.

We need poets to change the world,
Henry, not politicians.

Such a dream as I never enter.

Who then?

Who will write the anthems for our
children and their children? I am not a

songwriter. Miss Ant, you are far more
talented than I.

There should be banquets in your honor,
not mine.

Sit.

Frances Appleton Longfellow, artist
extraordinaire.

I like my place in this world.

Tying your ties.

Cleaning your hands.

Fixing your palms.

I want you to take me to a lovely
banquet.

Ye are better than all the ballads that
ever were sung or said, for ye are

living poets, and all the rest are dead.

Ye are sweet, but we are late, so don't
forget your coat.

Our carriage awaits, my bride.

Your coat?

Right.

Never. It's insufferable. Senator, you
have charmed all the hearts of the

Must you now charm my own wife?

Your wife?

And all this time I thought I was
speaking with the heroine of a great

Hyperion? Have you read it? Oh, indeed.
She is that heroine. And indeed, she has

since forgiven me for that bold and
blind attempt for her heart. Oh, have I?

Perhaps I should give it a try.

Yes, I will write a fictional account of
a factual meeting. I would not

recommend it. And we will marry.

Thank you for inspiring me, Mr.
Longfield.

Miss Ashbert.

Ladies and gentlemen of highest esteem,
thank you for adorning

our home with your lovely presence.

Now, as you return to your place at the
table, would you please join me in

warmly acknowledging those responsible
for tonight's feast?

Tonight we also acknowledge a few of
Massachusetts' finest.

Chief among them, a man who just five
years ago lay near death on the chamber

floor of the U .S. Senate.

Beaten with the cane of a slave -holding
congressman, Mr. Sumner fought for his

life that day, but also...

for the lives of helpless slaves across
this land who are beaten daily by

immoral men.

Ladies and gentlemen, Senator Charles
Sumner.

Now we turn our attention to this
evening's central figure.

Already enshrined as America's poet and
referred to as America's most famous

person, his works, well, have helped
shape the national character and its

legacy. The New York Evening Post cast
Longfellow as the nation's prophet.

Like Thomas Paine of the Revolution, his
recent poem, Paul Revere's Ride,

is finding its way into the ranks and
the rucksacks of a gathering army of

patriots.

It was reported that over 10 ,000 copies
of his works sold in London in a single

day, a day that Charles Dickens called
more frightening than all the ghosts of

Christmas past, present, and future.
Come on.

So who is this man?

He is the Song of Hiawatha.

He is the Belfry of Bruges.

He is New England's very own Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow.

Lift your eyes on me.

Lifting.

Smile. Nod.

Smiling.

Nodding. Good boy. Cheer and calm the
wildest woe, and stay the bitterest

But even Henry Longfellow cannot stay
those bitter tears when it comes to the

sin of slavery in our land.

Longfellow's poems on slavery.

have helped ignite a national outcry.

I have chosen one of these poems to be
read by a man who is all too well aware

of the dehumanizing consequence of being
man's property.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Josiah Wilson.

A poem on slavery by Mr. Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow.

The pages of thy book I read, and as I
closed each one,

my heart, responding, ever said, Well
done.

Well done.

Thy words are great.

And bold.

At times to me they seem like Luthers.

In the days of old.

Half battles for the free.

Go on.

Until this land.

Revokes. The old and chartered lie.

The feudal curse.

Whose whips and yokes insult humanity.

A voice is ever at thy side.

Speaking in tones of might.

Like the prophetic voice that cried to
John and Patmos. Write.

Write. And tell out this bloody tale.

Record this.

dire eclipse, this day of wrath, this
endless well, this

dread apocalypse.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

You are a good man, Henry.

Charles!

You promised your brother and - sisters,
you would help them fly the K -I -T -E

this morning at the P -A -R -K.

Well, I can't find the kite.

I want to fly a kite.

Did they already take it to the park?

I want to go to the park.

I know.

Found it.

I want it, Charlie. I want it. Thank you
so much, Charles.

Can I go, Mother?

Sure.

But first, let's recite one of Papa's
poems.

Yeah. girl poem.

I'll start.

There was a little girl. Me.

Who had a little girl.

Right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good. She was very good
indeed.

But when she was bad. She was horrid.
Charles Appleton Longfellow.

But that's the poem. Oh. That's how
father wrote it.

Ask him. Oh my goodness.

I changed the ending for her.

Papa! Oh, goodness me.

Charlie said you called me horrid in
your little girl poem.

What?

No, no, no.

The little girl with curls is about a
different little girl.

But I thought it was my poem.

Oh, it is your poem.

Just not that part. Charlie! Come along,
little one.

To the park.

Did I grow, Mama? Well, let's see.

I believe you did, and we just measured
you yesterday.

Now go enjoy the park.

I love you.

Bye, Mama.

Ah, fresh stack of papers.

We should have bought a paper mill.

Perhaps horrid is a bit strong.

That's why I changed it.

You changed my poem?

What could possibly rhyme better than
horrid?

Change my poem.

I'm a Henry Longfellow.

I need you to stop at the post office.

My father loves how Annie's hair curls
in the summertime.

I'm placing it on your desk under the
watchful eye of

Johan.

Would you please rise for the last
verse?

Christ be with you, Henry.

The service has concluded.

Everyone sends their deepest
condolences.

Is there...

Anything we can say on your behalf.

I understand.

It's the 13th day of July.

It is.

15 years ago today, she became my bride.

She wore orange blossoms in her hair.

with one orange blossom.

Christmas Day 1862

Yesterday, as I

was passing down the village street, I
saw in a shop window

a beautiful orange tree, having upon it

six oranges.

and hundred buds and blossoms.

It is now flourishing in my own window
and filling the

room with fragrance.

But the fragrance opens graves within
me.

Impressively sad are all holidays.

Merry Christmas, say the children.

But that is no more for me.

Whoa.

What? Why'd you say whoa?

You did shrink.

about Mama?

Yes.

Yeah.

Did I grow smaller?

No. Annie, you've grown.

In fact, you've grown so much.

Are you standing on your tippy toes?

No. Are you sure?

Papa, stop!

I have another somewhere.

If God gave me the voice of a poet, then
why did he take my poetry from me?

I will never write again.

As the dead lie silent, my voice lies
silent.

Let the war within me rage.

rescue to save our union calling all
able -bodied men it is time to serve

country here they come 54th
massachusetts

Here's Mary's brother.

Douglas! Douglas!

I'm proud of you, son!

How old is he?

Fine parade.

Yes, it is.

You'd make a brave soldier.

You'd think so.

But I'd rather you stay here in
Cambridge with me.

So it's got to be one or the other.

You just said it. Said what?

I can't stay in Cambridge and be brave.

Charlie, that's not what I meant.

I'm sorry, Mary.

Sir! Here!

Charlie.

Next up.

Sign your name here and sign your name
there.

Are you Longfellow's boy?

I am.

Suddenly a man?

Next stop.

The boy's will is the wind's will.

And for our family.

It's in Christ's name we pray.

Amen.

Did you watch

the parade today, Pa?

No.

Did not watch the parade today.

I watched you watching the parade.

Pa, I'm the only man on Brattle Street
that hasn't enlisted.

Man.

I'm almost 18.

You've written poems that rage against
slavery.

You've inspired the union with Paul
Revere's rhyme.

And there are alternative ways you can
serve as well.

In the hour of darkness and peril and
need, the people will waken

and listen to hear the hurrying
hoofbeats of that steed.

and the midnight message of Paul Revere.
I intend for my pen to raise unity, not

swords. It has raised an army of swords.

Please, sit down, Charles. I will not
sit. I will stand, and I will fight. We

are fighting!

Fighting every day just to survive!

I need... Oh, you need...

You need? What about us?

You never leave the house except to get
more ether.

It's for the pain.

We cook the food. We clean the house.

Your brother and sisters look to you
for... For what? To replace their absent

father and their dead mother? For hope.

Charles.

going to die too?

No.

No, Charlie is not going to die.

I will not let it happen again.

And again.

I know what you promised Mother, but
she's dead now.

Let that promise die too.

This is not God's will for you.

God's will?

You still believe in that?

What do you think he was doing while she
burned alive?

Huh?

Was he sleeping?

Indeed.

Indeed, like some rain must fall. This
is not a poem.

I am not a poem. This war is not a poem.
I know. You write about the hopes of

youth. All my youth was stolen from me.

And hope?

I will not put it in a God who is
sleeping.

Or a God who is dead.

There.

I set it for both of us.

Son. Charles, don't.

Please. Please.

Charles has run off to war without my
consent.

Perhaps you can make arrangements to
protect him.

Please, I beseech you. Do what you must.

You're eternally grateful.

Red. Henry.

Adjutant Curtin.

Sir.

Within your ranks is a private by the
name of Mr. Charles Appleton Longfellow.

Promote him to a rank that would serve
the officers and prevent him from

entering the fray of battle.

Senator Charles Sumner. Find Charles
Longfellow and have him begin reporting

directly to me immediately, sir.

You too good to eat hard tack like the
rest of us?

Oh. Is that why you officers keep your
shiny teeth?

Mm -hmm.

Shiny teeth.

Shiny boots.

Shiny promotion. Shut your mouth,
Richard.

Look, how do you get the second
lieutenant anyhow?

You ain't even fired a rifle.

Enough. What you gonna do, throw a
silver spoon at him? I said enough.

Get back to my reading.

What you doing with that magazine,
Richard?

Everybody knows you can't read.

I can, too.

Two if I land, one if I see.

That ain't even on the page.

Because I'm a fast reader.

Would you believe it if I told you he's
got more teeth than brains?

Yes, I would.

I was brave, though.

Name's Elliot.

Elliot Gleeson.

Charlie.

Just Charlie?

Just Charlie.

I've heard your father's some sort of
famous writer or something.

He's a poet.

Is there a difference?

He says one rambles and the other
rhymes.

That's good.

Could you tell us one?

One of your old man's poems?

No.

It's either listening to you recite
poetry or listening to Ugly over there

gnawing on tack.

And he climbed to the tower

of the

Old North Church.

Look, Charlie.

These boys are going to spend the rest
of their lives trying to forget what

happened out there today.

Give them something to take their minds.

My mind.

Off it for a while.

All right.

Listen up.

This here's Charlie.

Just Charlie.

He's got something to share.

His wages?

No, not his wages.

His old man's a writer.

A poet.

Poet. This old man's a poet. That
explains it.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
the forms I see, nor hear the

sounds I hear.

He but perceives what is, while unto me
all that has been

is visible and clear.

There are things of which I may not
speak.

There are dreams that cannot die.

There are thoughts that make the strong
heart weak and bring a pallor into the

cheek and a mist before the eye.

And Deering's woods are fresh and fair.

And with joy that is almost pain, my
heart goes back to wander there.

And among the dreams of the days that
were, I find my lost youth again.

And the strange and beautiful song, the
groves are repeating it still.

A boy's will is the wind's will.

And the thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts.

Your pa wrote that?

And a few more.

General?

As you were.

Look not mournfully into the past.

It comes not back again.

Wisely improve the present into thine.

Go forth to meet the shadowy future
without fear.

And with a manly heart.

You're not just Charlie.

Who are you?

Longfellow. Yes, sir. I'm assembling the
officers for a debrief.

Yes, sir.

Did he just say Longfellow?

Oh, and it's one if by land, two if by
sea.

Well done.

You just offended the son of America's
greatest pope.

You think his old man signed it for me?
Can you read it if he did?

Get out. Get out of here.

You will not let me.

Hudson! Yes, sir?

Take my horse!

The ship didn't go in there.

There's an entire flank out on the other
side for this.

It's him again.

Excuse me, sir, for the... Why are you
not guarding the supply wagon?

Well, sir, that's why I'm here.

I thought I'd be of better service at
the front.

Fighting. Then who would be guarding the
supply wagon?

Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.

We don't need this. Sir?

Charlie. Sir, why am I continually miles
away from every engagement?

Isn't that the best place to be?

No. No, sir, it's not. Not for me. Your
field list, sir.

Sir, does this have anything to do with
who my father is?

Ask the politicians.

So it's true?

Truth.

Is that what you're looking for?

See those wagons over there?

Yes, sir. They're empty.

You know why they're empty?

No, sir. Because I just ordered my
officers to march 200 men into a

slaughterhouse.

By noon, those wagons will be stacked
with bloody heaps of men.

My men.

Officers like you.

So you tell me which officer you want to
be.

Me?

A dead one?

Or one who guards the supply wagon?

Looks like your father made that
decision for you.

Dear Charles, I hope this letter finds
you well and in good health.

Summer has arrived, yet still no word
from you.

Fearing my letters are being lost, I
plan for them to be hand -delivered by

adjutant.

I hope this arrangement does not upset
you.

The flowers are in full bloom.

Nature's missive that your birthday
draws near.

Where have the years gone?

My son, suddenly a man.

Your Uncle Thomas sends his regards.

He has been a tremendous support to us.

Constantly coaxing me to get out of the
house.

A deeper brotherhood has formed, and I
am reminded that he is grieving the loss

of a sister as I grieve the loss of a
wife.

Last autumn he... even persuaded Ernest
and I to a duck hunt.

You might be surprised that I invited
the reverend to join us.

Your mother was right about the
reverend.

He is a good man who brings goodwill to
men.

Here they come!

The day proved that he is a better
shepherd of people than he is a hunter

ducks. There are two barrels to this
firearm.

I'll take that now, Reverend.

Your brother and sisters miss you,
Charlie.

I miss you, son.

There are many things I miss.

How they long for a knock at the door
and for it to be you.

how I dread a knock at the door with
news of you.

Like all fathers of fighting sons, the
knock is an awful and beautiful

obsession.

But I will heed the advice of a once
famous poet who wrote, Let us then be up

and doing, with a heart for any fate,
still achieving, still pursuing, learn

to labor and to wait.

I'm proud of you, son.

Please stay safe.

Love, Father.

Lift your eyes.

Mr. Longfellow, lift your eyes, please.

Thank you.

Today, for the first time, I have knelt
before the altar and received communion.

I have many times before shrunk back as
too impure to handle those holy things.

But today, this holiest Sabbath of the
year, this birthday of the world,

for Christ was born to bestow true life
on all.

I felt no dread, no superstitious
terror, but overwhelming tenderness.

and joy.

When the clergyman offered me bread with
these words, eat this in remembrance of

Christ, profound awe followed, and I
seemed already to myself a new

creature.

The wine completed this belief in my
innermost soul, warming, reviving,

recreating its existence.

Happiness, too deep for speech or
thought, succeeded.

A blessed, blessed peace.

The Father's love encircling me like an
atmosphere, pressing evenly on

my whole being, like light.

I chronicle this event because it is one
of the few which makes life memorable

and death happy.

How long are you going to stare at that
church?

Until we freeze?

Charlie.

My mother always loved hearing church
bells.

She called them hopeful voices of the
church.

Looks like the church lost its voice.

Yeah.

Long follow!

But the adjutant has not.

Here comes your guardian angel.

Gleeson reports to you, men.

Looking high and low for you,
Lieutenant.

Mail came.

Another letter from your father.

You know, your father's words have
comforted so many. You'd think they

the same for his own son.

Yeah, you'd think.

Week after week he writes you, but you
never write him back.

I have nothing to say.

Nothing to say?

Do you know how many young men I've seen
take their last breath?

And you know what every single one of
them says before they do?

Tell my mother and father I love them.

Read his letters, Charlie.

Write him back.

Quit running off, would you?

I have orders to bring you back alive,
and I never disobey an order.

Go, Charlie, go!

Go!

Two rebels likely part of a larger force
behind that tree line. Two? And you

turned back?

I thought you should be so proud.

What are you doing?

We drew them out.

Give me your rifle.

I want to secure the church.

Sir, those Rebs wanted us out in that
open field for a reason. If General

won't end this, then I will.

I got him on the run.

I'm not going to waste my time dragging
my wounded through those woods. They are

drawing us out. Send a scout.

No. I'll go.

Sir.

I'll lead a small unit along those
trees. You will stay here.

Lieutenant Longfellow will go.

I'm going with him. Me too, sir. One man
goes.

That's an order.

A message from the Army of the Potomac
for Mr. Henry Longfellow.

Hi.

I'm Henry Longfellow.

He's been wounded.

So severely wounded.

Ernest, near death. He could be
paralyzed.

He's on train 475 headed to Washington.
I'll call for Uncle Thomas to watch the

girls. We'll leave tonight.

Shh, shh, shh.

Father, he's alive.

I'll pack our things. We're going to
find him. Is Charlie going to be okay,

Father? Charlie's going to be fine,
girls. Uncle Thomas will be staying with

while we're gone. Father, we must pack.

We're going to find him.

Are you Professor Longfellow?

Yes. I'm Dr.

Babayev of Riga. Doctor.

Give me your hand. I am surgeon in U .S.
Army.

Director of field ambulance.

My son.

Is he alive?

Your son?

Charles Longfellow. He's a second
lieutenant. I don't know a Charles.

I, too, am a writer and a translator.

I have it here.

Would

you

please place your autograph in it for
me?

Will he live?

I promised his mother.

Father.

Father.

I'm sorry.

No, no. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

I want to go home.

I'm taking you home, son.

I'm taking you home.

I'm going to take you home.

Never better.

Well, I don't want you getting too
comfortable.

We'd like my bed back someday.

The prodigal son has returned.

What's mine is yours.

The holly's nice.

Hmm? Oh, your sisters.

I don't know which delighted them more,
searching for their gifts or sneaking

past you as you slept.

I see you've been teaching them
penmanship.

Oh, no, the holly is from your sisters.

The note, the note is from Mary.

Have you been writing much?

No, I haven't.

When the times have such a gunpowder
flavor, all literature loses its taste.

I haven't stepped foot behind my writing
desk since your mother died.

fallen from its steeple.

What, son?

I was so close to that church when I got
shot.

You don't have to talk about this, son.
One minute I was on my horse, and the

next I was on the ground, unable to
move,

except to open and close my eyes.

And I preferred to keep them closed.

And the next time I opened them, I was
inside the church.

Go up front.

Right here.

It's okay, Jordan.

Take your coat off. You're going to be
all right, Charlie.

You're going to be all right.

I entered everywhere and metal twisted
and disfigured.

They laid me out on a pew.

And above me was the sky where the
steeple once stood.

And beside me was the bell.

He just stared at it, lying there,
mocking me.

This voice of the church, as Mother
would say.

Not just a bronze corpse on the floor of
some blown -out church.

I got cold, Pop.

I got so cold.

That I was right.

Right about what, son?

What I said the night I left.

About God.

About God being dead.

feel death washing over me.

So I just closed my eyes and waited for
it to come.

And then I heard it.

The bell.

And when I opened my eyes, it was
shining so bright.

And even though that bell was lying in a
pile of rubble,

it rang more loud and deep than if it
had been

hoisted atop the highest steeple.

Paul, you are that bell.

And you are not done ringing.

I need to go.

I chronicle this event because it is one
of the few that makes life memorable

and death happy.

Christmas 1841.

She became the bride of Christ and then
became yours.

Was... Is that the only reason you came,
Henry?

I just... I just wanted you to know of
Fanny's deep faith and devotion.

Everyone who knew Fanny knew of her deep
faith and devotion.

What are you carrying, Henry?

Whatever it is, you can leave it here.

I was married once before.

Her name was Mary Potter.

We were childhood friends.

We were married in the summer of 1831.

I never knew.

It was a thousand lifetimes ago.

What happened?

We were young.

I was ambitious.

Mary wanted a home.

I was offered a professorship of modern
languages from Harvard with the

stipulation that I spend a year of study
in Europe.

Mary was six months pregnant when my
ambition took her across the ocean.

She miscarried somewhere in Holland.

The child had a brief existence, born
only to be buried.

Mary died a few days later.

I've never blamed God for their deaths.

I am to blame.

And even when Fanny and I lost our
daughter to illness, Fanny's faith kept

strong.

With Fanny's death.

What is a man to believe?

When Fanny was alive, my faith was
alive.

With Fanny's death, my faith is...

Thank you

for listening, Reverend.

I've taken enough of your time. Henry,
Fanny passed from this earth, yes.

But she still speaks from those pages.

And so does he from these.

They are both very much alive.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day.

I heard.

The chance is sublime.

I intend for my pen to reach unity, not
sword.

Why did he take my poetry from me?

I will never write again.

Am I writing fiction?

There is no peace on earth, I

said, for hate is strong

and mocks the soul.

A peace on earth could will

to men.

the bells of more loud and deep.

God is not dead.

You are not asleep.

The wrong shall fail.

The right prevail with peace on earth.

Goodwill.

Christmas Day their old familiar carols

play and wild and sweet the world

And who...