Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ( 10 of 238 )
Romance is the poetry of literature.
Romance is the poetry of literature.
What else remains for me?
Youth, hope and love;
To build a new life on a ruined read more
What else remains for me?
Youth, hope and love;
To build a new life on a ruined life.
He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
I hear the wind among the trees
Playing the celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
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I hear the wind among the trees
Playing the celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.
Listen, every one
That listen may, unto a tale
That's merrier than the nightingale.
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Listen, every one
That listen may, unto a tale
That's merrier than the nightingale.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Tales of a Wayside Inn (pt. III,),
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.
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.
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the read more
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
These faces in the mirrors
Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself.
These faces in the mirrors
Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself.
