Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.

A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain, and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles read more

A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain, and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles the rain.

I love the season well
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded read more

I love the season well
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming of storms.

The human voice is the organ of the soul.

The human voice is the organ of the soul.

Every human heart is human.

Every human heart is human.