Maxioms by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.
Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.
The pen became a clarion.
The pen became a clarion.
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the read more
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
The ceaseless rain is falling fast,
And yonder gilded vane,
Immovable for three days past,
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The ceaseless rain is falling fast,
And yonder gilded vane,
Immovable for three days past,
Points to the misty main.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
