Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with read more

Her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

Ah, to build, to build!
That is the noblest of all the arts.

Ah, to build, to build!
That is the noblest of all the arts.

Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon
Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the read more

Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon
Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape;
Trinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.

Tell your master that if there were as many devils at Worms as
tiles on its roofs, I would read more

Tell your master that if there were as many devils at Worms as
tiles on its roofs, I would enter.

Well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak.

Well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak.