Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating read more

Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

What else remains for me?
Youth, hope and love;
To build a new life on a ruined read more

What else remains for me?
Youth, hope and love;
To build a new life on a ruined life.

There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.

There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.

You behold in me
Only a travelling Physician;
One of the few who have a mission
read more

You behold in me
Only a travelling Physician;
One of the few who have a mission
To cure incurable diseases,
Or those that are called so.

The pen became a clarion.

The pen became a clarion.