Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings read more

The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, read more

For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, the sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

Feet that run on willing errands!

Feet that run on willing errands!

Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater
To raise the dead to life than to create
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Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater
To raise the dead to life than to create
Phantoms that seem to live.

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.