Maxioms by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Romance is the poetry of literature.
Romance is the poetry of literature.
The atmosphere
Breathes rest and comfort and the many chambers
Seem full of welcomes.
The atmosphere
Breathes rest and comfort and the many chambers
Seem full of welcomes.
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.
It was Autumn, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the read more
It was Autumn, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the apples
Burned among the withering leaves.
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
