Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance.
. . . .
And, when the echoes had read more

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance.
. . . .
And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the
silence.

For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, read more

For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, the sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain.

The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain.

The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the read more

The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.