Maxioms by 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.
And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain.
And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
and read more
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.
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.
People demand freedom only when they have no power.
People demand freedom only when they have no power.
So many ghosts, and forms of fright,
Have started from their graves to-night,
They have driven sleep read more
So many ghosts, and forms of fright,
Have started from their graves to-night,
They have driven sleep from mine eyes away;
I will go down to the chapel and pray.
