Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries read more

The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart,
When the full river of feeling overflows;--
The happy days unclouded to their close;
The sudden joys that our of darkness start
As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!

I should think your tongue has broken its chain.

I should think your tongue has broken its chain.

The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
. . . .
read more

The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
. . . .
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

I see, but cannot reach, the height
That lies forever in the light.

I see, but cannot reach, the height
That lies forever in the light.

Romance is the poetry of literature.

Romance is the poetry of literature.