Talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted.
I see, but cannot reach, the height That lies forever in the light.
Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.
The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!
Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.
Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.
If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm any hostility. -HW Longfellow.
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.
I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.
Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the gods see everywhere.
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.
Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest of all the arts.
Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.
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.
I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.
For bells are the voice of the church; They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old.
Seize the loud, vociferous fells, and Clashing, clanging to the pavement Hurl them from their windy tower!
These bells have been anointed, And baptized with holy water!
He heard the convent bell, Suddenly in the silence ringing For the service of noonday.
The bells themselves are the best of preachers, Their brazen lips are learned teachers, From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, Shriller than trumpets under the Law, Now a sermon and now a prayer.
Bell, thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie! Bell, thou soundest solemnly, When, on Sabbath morning, Fields deserted lie!
It cometh into court and pleads the cause Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws; And this shall make, in every Christian clime, The bell of Atri famous for all time. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught! - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,