THE GHOSTS by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
Two enigmatic women show up unexpectedly at Hiawatha's wigwam on a winter night and act impolitely — feasting on the finest food, remaining silent, and crying at midnight.
The poem
Never stoops the soaring vulture On his quarry in the desert, On the sick or wounded bison, But another vulture, watching From his high aerial look-out, Sees the downward plunge, and follows; And a third pursues the second, Coming from the invisible ether, First a speck, and then a vulture, Till the air is dark with pinions. So disasters come not singly; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise Round their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish. Now, o'er all the dreary North-land, Mighty Peboan, the Winter, Breathing on the lakes and rivers, Into stone had changed their waters. From his hair he shook the snow-flakes, Till the plains were strewn with whiteness, One uninterrupted level, As if, stooping, the Creator With his hand had smoothed them over. Through the forest, wide and wailing, Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes; In the village worked the women, Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin; And the young men played together On the ice the noisy ball-play, On the plain the dance of snow-shoes. One dark evening, after sundown, In her wigwam Laughing Water Sat with old Nokomis, waiting For the steps of Hiawatha Homeward from the hunt returning. On their faces gleamed the firelight, Painting them with streaks of crimson, In the eyes of old Nokomis Glimmered like the watery moonlight, In the eyes of Laughing Water Glistened like the sun in water; And behind them crouched their shadows In the corners of the wigwam, And the smoke in wreaths above them Climbed and crowded through the smoke-flue. Then the curtain of the doorway From without was slowly lifted; Brighter glowed the fire a moment, And a moment swerved the smoke-wreath, As two women entered softly, Passed the doorway uninvited, Without word of salutation, Without sign of recognition, Sat down in the farthest corner, Crouching low among the shadows. From their aspect and their garments, Strangers seemed they in the village; Very pale and haggard were they, As they sat there sad and silent, Trembling, cowering with the shadows. Was it the wind above the smoke-flue, Muttering down into the wigwam? Was it the owl, the Koko-koho, Hooting from the dismal forest? Sure a voice said in the silence: "These are corpses clad in garments, These are ghosts that come to haunt you, From the kingdom of Ponemah, From the land of the Hereafter!" Homeward now came Hiawatha From his hunting in the forest, With the snow upon his tresses, And the red deer on his shoulders. At the feet of Laughing Water Down he threw his lifeless burden; Nobler, handsomer she thought him, Than when first he came to woo her, First threw down the deer before her, As a token of his wishes, As a promise of the future. Then he turned and saw the strangers, Cowering, crouching with the shadows; Said within himself, "Who are they? What strange guests has Minnehaha?" But he questioned not the strangers, Only spake to bid them welcome To his lodge, his food, his fireside. When the evening meal was ready, And the deer had been divided, Both the pallid guests, the strangers, Springing from among the shadows, Seized upon the choicest portions, Seized the white fat of the roebuck, Set apart for Laughing Water, For the wife of Hiawatha; Without asking, without thanking, Eagerly devoured the morsels, Flitted back among the shadows In the corner of the wigwam. Not a word spake Hiawatha, Not a motion made Nokomis, Not a gesture Laughing Water; Not a change came o'er their features; Only Minnehaha softly Whispered, saying, "They are famished; Let them do what best delights them; Let them eat, for they are famished." Many a daylight dawned and darkened, Many a night shook off the daylight As the pine shakes off the snow-flakes From the midnight of its branches; Day by day the guests unmoving Sat there silent in the wigwam; But by night, in storm or starlight, Forth they went into the forest, Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam, Bringing pine-cones for the burning, Always sad and always silent. And whenever Hiawatha Came from fishing or from hunting, When the evening meal was ready, And the food had been divided, Gliding from their darksome corner, Came the pallid guests, the strangers, Seized upon the choicest portions Set aside for Laughing Water, And without rebuke or question Flitted back among the shadows. Never once had Hiawatha By a word or look reproved them; Never once had old Nokomis Made a gesture of impatience; Never once had Laughing Water Shown resentment at the outrage. All had they endured in silence, That the rights of guest and stranger, That the virtue of free-giving, By a look might not be lessened, By a word might not be broken. Once at midnight Hiawatha, Ever wakeful, ever watchful, In the wigwam, dimly lighted By the brands that still were burning, By the glimmering, flickering firelight Heard a sighing, oft repeated, Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow. From his couch rose Hiawatha, From his shaggy hides of bison, Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain, Saw the pallid guests, the shadows, Sitting upright on their couches, Weeping in the silent midnight. And he said: "O guests! why is it That your hearts are so afflicted, That you sob so in the midnight? Has perchance the old Nokomis, Has my wife, my Minnehaha, Wronged or grieved you by unkindness, Failed in hospitable duties?" Then the shadows ceased from weeping, Ceased from sobbing and lamenting, And they said, with gentle voices: "We are ghosts of the departed, Souls of those who once were with you. From the realms of Chibiabos Hither have we come to try you, Hither have we come to warn you. "Cries of grief and lamentation Reach us in the Blessed Islands; Cries of anguish from the living, Calling back their friends departed, Sadden us with useless sorrow. Therefore have we come to try you; No one knows us, no one heeds us. We are but a burden to you, And we see that the departed Have no place among the living. "Think of this, O Hiawatha! Speak of it to all the people, That henceforward and forever They no more with lamentations Sadden the souls of the departed In the Islands of the Blessed. "Do not lay such heavy burdens In the graves of those you bury, Not such weight of furs and wampum, Not such weight of pots and kettles, For the spirits faint beneath them. Only give them food to carry, Only give them fire to light them. "Four days is the spirit's journey To the land of ghosts and shadows, Four its lonely night encampments; Four times must their fires be lighted. Therefore, when the dead are buried, Let a fire, as night approaches, Four times on the grave be kindled, That the soul upon its journey May not lack the cheerful firelight, May not grope about in darkness. "Farewell, noble Hiawatha! We have put you to the trial, To the proof have put your patience, By the insult of our presence, By the outrage of our actions. We have found you great and noble. Fail not in the greater trial, Faint not in the harder struggle." When they ceased, a sudden darkness Fell and filled the silent wigwam. Hiawatha heard a rustle As of garments trailing by him, Heard the curtain of the doorway Lifted by a hand he saw not, Felt the cold breath of the night air, For a moment saw the starlight; But he saw the ghosts no longer, Saw no more the wandering spirits From the kingdom of Ponemah, From the land of the Hereafter. XX
Two enigmatic women show up unexpectedly at Hiawatha's wigwam on a winter night and act impolitely — feasting on the finest food, remaining silent, and crying at midnight. When Hiawatha eventually inquires about their distress, they disclose that they are spirits sent to challenge his patience and hospitality. They leave him with guidance on how the living should honor the dead to ensure that mourning doesn't haunt souls in the afterlife. This tale explores themes of grief, generosity, and the obligations we have to those we've lost.
Line-by-line
Never stoops the soaring vulture / On his quarry in the desert,
So disasters come not singly; / But as if they watched and waited,
Now, o'er all the dreary North-land, / Mighty Peboan, the Winter,
Through the forest, wide and wailing, / Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes;
One dark evening, after sundown, / In her wigwam Laughing Water
Then the curtain of the doorway / From without was slowly lifted;
Homeward now came Hiawatha / From his hunting in the forest,
When the evening meal was ready, / And the deer had been divided,
Many a daylight dawned and darkened, / Many a night shook off the daylight
Never once had Hiawatha / By a word or look reproved them;
Once at midnight Hiawatha, / Ever wakeful, ever watchful,
Then the shadows ceased from weeping, / Ceased from sobbing and lamenting,
When they ceased, a sudden darkness / Fell and filled the silent wigwam.
Tone & mood
The tone remains solemn and ceremonial, influenced by Longfellow's use of trochaic tetrameter from the Finnish epic *Kalevala*. This steady, drum-like rhythm lends a ritual significance to even simple actions—like a hunter coming home or women grinding corn. The domestic scenes feel warm, while the arrival of the ghosts evokes a genuine eeriness, but neither crosses into sentimentality or horror. The overall atmosphere conveys a sense of reverence: for the dead, for the obligation of hospitality, and for the natural world that surrounds it all.
Symbols & metaphors
- The vultures — The opening simile of the vulture represents how sorrows pile up on one another. One disaster draws in another like a circling bird lures more birds, until the sky—or a life—becomes overshadowed by them. This imagery sets the tone for the entire poem, turning it into a reflection on the weight of accumulated grief.
- The firelight — Fire in the wigwam symbolizes warmth, life, and the close ties among the living. The ghosts' nightly efforts to gather firewood and the practice of lighting fires on graves for four nights carry this symbol into the afterlife—fire serves as a bridge between the living and the dead, illuminating the path for the soul.
- The shadows / corners of the wigwam — The ghosts tend to linger in the darkest corners and are often referred to as shadows. This depicts the dead as being on the fringes of the living world—there but not fully part of it, visible only in dim light, existing in a space that doesn’t fully belong to either realm.
- The choicest portions of food — The food the ghosts take — the white fat meant for Minnehaha — symbolizes the finest offerings from the living. By grabbing it without permission, the ghosts challenge Hiawatha's hospitality to see if it's authentic or just a formality. His silence on the matter shows that his generosity is sincere, not just for show.
- Winter / Peboan — Winter takes on a personality, enveloping the world in a quiet pause — lakes freeze over, plains become smooth, and rivers stand still. It's nature's version of death: everything is still and silent, as if the world is holding its breath. When real ghosts appear, they seem like a natural part of the season rather than a break from reality.
- The four nights of fire — The ghosts' request to light a grave-fire for four nights in a row signifies the soul's journey as something clear and measurable. In many Indigenous traditions, four holds sacred meaning. This ritual turns grief from an endless, shapeless pain into a defined, meaningful action — a way for the living to honor the dead instead of merely enduring their loss.
Historical context
This poem is Canto XX from Longfellow's *The Song of Hiawatha*, published in 1855. The narrative poem draws on Henry Rowe Schoolcraft's ethnographic studies of Ojibwe oral traditions, especially the figure of Manabozho, whom Longfellow renamed Hiawatha. Its meter—trochaic tetrameter with strong repetition—was intentionally modeled after the Finnish national epic *Kalevala*, which Longfellow admired for its rhythmic, incantatory style. The poem was released at a time when Americans were particularly interested in Indigenous cultures, although Longfellow's romanticized version has faced criticism for oversimplifying the rich complexity of real Ojibwe life and traditions. Canto XX specifically explores Ojibwe beliefs about the afterlife, the soul's journey, and the proper mourning rituals—content Longfellow adapted from Schoolcraft's *Algic Researches* (1839).
FAQ
They are ghosts—souls of people who were once alive and part of the community. They show themselves at midnight when Hiawatha asks why they are crying. They were sent from the land of the dead to see if Hiawatha and his household would welcome unknown strangers with true hospitality.
It sets the tone for the entire canto. Longfellow suggests that sorrows tend to gather—one misfortune often brings along others, much like a single descending vulture attracts a whole flock. The appearance of ghosts in a once warm and happy home brings its own kind of sorrow, and the larger narrative of *Hiawatha* is filled with a series of losses and challenges. This simile prepares the reader to sense the heaviness of what’s ahead.
Because in the hospitality tradition honored by the poem, you greet a guest before asking them questions. Requesting a stranger to identify themselves before providing food and shelter would go against the duty of hospitality. Hiawatha's silence isn't just passive; it's a conscious choice to prioritize the guest's comfort over his own desire to know more.
Two things. First, they want to see if the living actually practice the hospitality they talk about — and Hiawatha passes this test. Second, they bring a message: the living need to tone down their grieving so that the dead aren’t disturbed in the afterlife, and they should adhere to certain burial customs (light fires on the grave for four nights, bury only food and fire-making tools, avoiding heavier items) to help ease the soul's journey.
Yes. Minnehaha is Hiawatha's wife in *The Song of Hiawatha*. Her Ojibwe name translates to "laughing water" or "waterfall," and Longfellow uses both names throughout the poem. In this canto, she plays a minor yet significant role — her gentle compassion for the ghosts ("they are famished") establishes the moral tone for the household's reaction.
Ponemah is Longfellow's interpretation of an Ojibwe concept of the afterlife — the destination where souls go after death. He refers to it as "the kingdom of Chibiabos" (named after a figure in Ojibwe tradition linked to the dead) and "the Blessed Islands." The ghosts depict it as a tangible place they have come from, not just a metaphor.
The poem uses trochaic tetrameter—each line has eight syllables, with every pair beginning on a stressed syllable (DUM-da DUM-da DUM-da DUM-da). Longfellow took this structure from the Finnish epic *Kalevala*. This repetition is deliberate: it reflects the rhythm of oral storytelling and imparts a chant-like, ceremonial feel that fits its themes. Some readers find it captivating, while others see it as dull.
It draws on material Longfellow discovered in Henry Rowe Schoolcraft's ethnographic writings on Ojibwe culture, especially in *Algic Researches* (1839). The ideas about the soul's four-day journey, grave fires, and the risks of excessive mourning are indeed rooted in Ojibwe tradition. However, Longfellow interpreted these concepts through a European Romantic perspective and made substantial alterations, so the poem is better understood as his literary interpretation rather than a precise ethnographic account.