Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
. . . .
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The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
. . . .
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was read more

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

It was Autumn, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the read more

It was Autumn, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the apples
Burned among the withering leaves.

A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams.

A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams.

We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.

We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.