Maxioms by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
The light upon her face
Shines from the windows of another world.
Saints only have such faces.
The light upon her face
Shines from the windows of another world.
Saints only have such faces.
I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of
song, born under green read more
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.
Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.
Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.
The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain.
The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain.
