Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ( 10 of 238 )
O child! O new-born denizen
Of life's great city! on thy head
The glory of morn is read more
O child! O new-born denizen
Of life's great city! on thy head
The glory of morn is shed,
Like a celestial benison!
Here at the portal thou dost stand,
And with thy little hand
Thou openest the mysterious gate
Into the future's undiscovered land.
Look not mournfully into the Past; it comes not back again.
Wisely improve the Present; it is thine.
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Look not mournfully into the Past; it comes not back again.
Wisely improve the Present; it is thine.
Go forth to meet the shadowy Future without fear and with a manly
heart.
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.
The architect
Built his great heart into these sculptured stones,
And with him toiled his children, and read more
The architect
Built his great heart into these sculptured stones,
And with him toiled his children, and their lives
Were builded, with his own, into the walls,
As offerings unto God.
Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined;Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.
Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined;Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.
Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.
Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.
Though he was rough, he was kindly.
Though he was rough, he was kindly.
The song on its mighty pinions
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven.
The song on its mighty pinions
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven.
Man-like it is to fall into sin; fiendlike it is to dwell therein.
Man-like it is to fall into sin; fiendlike it is to dwell therein.
He loved the twilight that surrounds
The border-land of old romance;
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance,
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He loved the twilight that surrounds
The border-land of old romance;
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance,
And banner waves, and trumpet sounds,
And ladies ride with hawk on wrist,
And mighty warriors sweep along,
Magnified by the purple mist,
The dusk of centuries and of song.
