Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
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Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Thy fate is the common fate of all; Into each life some rain must fall.

Thy fate is the common fate of all; Into each life some rain must fall.

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.

A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams.

A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams.

Ah, to build, to build!
That is the noblest of all the arts.

Ah, to build, to build!
That is the noblest of all the arts.