Maxioms by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
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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.
Kind messages, that pass from land to land;
Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history,
In read more
Kind messages, that pass from land to land;
Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history,
In which we feel the pressure of a hand,--
One touch of fire,--and all the rest is mystery!
As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.
As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.
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.
In the thickets and the meadows
Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa.
On the summit of the lodges
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In the thickets and the meadows
Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa.
On the summit of the lodges
Sang the robin, the Opechee.
