Poetry Thursday: How long is the night, brother?

I was actually looking for poems for a different reason, tripped over this poem by Henry van Dyke, and paused because I really liked it.

Day And Night

Henry Van Dyke 

How long is the night, brother,
  And how long is the day?
Oh, the day’s too short for a happy task,
  And the day’s too short for play;
And the night’s too short for the bliss of love,
  For look, how the edge of the sky grows gray,
While the stars die out in the blue above,
  And the wan moon fades away.
How short is the day, brother,
  And how short is the night?

Oh, the day’s too long for a heavy task,
  And long, long, long is the night,
When the wakeful hours are filled with pain,
  And the sad heart waits for the thing it fears,
And sighs for the dawn to come again,—
  The night is a thousand years!

How long is a life, dear God,
  And how fast does it flow?
The measure of life is a flame in the soul:
  It is neither swift nor slow.
But the vision of time is the shadow cast
  By the fleeting world on the body’s wall;
When it fades there is neither future nor past,
  But love is all in all.

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I have previously only encountered (that I remember) one poem of van Dyke’s, which I liked a lot. Then here this one is, and I like it a lot too. After reading that, I went looking for more poems by van Dyke. Here’s a very short one:

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Time Is

Time is
Too Slow for those who Wait,
Too Swift for those who Fear,
Too Long for those who Grieve,
Too Short for those who Rejoice;
But for those who Love,
Time is not.

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That’s wonderful. I think Henry van Dyke does a lot with a very simple format there. Here’s one with a very different format and style. The link goes to Project Gutenberg, where a whole bunch more poems can be found:

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LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES

  Long, long, long the trail
       Through the brooding forest-gloom,
     Down the shadowy, lonely vale
       Into silence, like a room
         Where the light of life has fled,
       And the jealous curtains close
       Round the passionless repose
         Of the silent dead.

     Plod, plod, plod away,
       Step by step in mouldering moss;
     Thick branches bar the day
       Over languid streams that cross
         Softly, slowly, with a sound
       In their aimless creeping
       Like a smothered weeping,
         Through the enchanted ground.

     "Yield, yield, yield thy quest,"
       Whispers through the woodland deep;
     "Come to me and be at rest;
       "I am slumber, I am sleep."
         Then the weary feet would fail,
       But the never-daunted will
       Urges "Forward, forward still!
         "Press along the trail!"

     Breast, breast, breast the slope!
       See, the path is growing steep.
     Hark! a little song of hope
       When the stream begins to leap.
         Though the forest, far and wide,
       Still shuts out the bending blue,
       We shall finally win through,
         Cross the long divide.

     On, on, onward tramp!
       Will the journey never end?
     Over yonder lies the camp;
       Welcome waits us there, my friend.
         Can we reach it ere the night?
       Upward, upward, never fear!
       Look, the summit must be near;
         See the line of light!

     Red, red, red the shine
       Of the splendour in the west,
     Glowing through the ranks of pine,
       Clear along the mountain-crest!
         Long, long, long the trail
       Out of sorrow's lonely vale;
       But at last the traveller sees
         Light between the trees!