Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind in never weary;
The read more

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind in never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings read more

The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater
To raise the dead to life than to create
read more

Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater
To raise the dead to life than to create
Phantoms that seem to live.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And out hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled read more

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And out hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon read more

I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose over the city,
Behind the dark church tower.