Maxioms by 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.
Her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with read more
Her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature,
That fashions all her works in high relief,
And read more
Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature,
That fashions all her works in high relief,
And that is Sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth,
Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire;
Men, women, and all animals that breathe
Are statues, and not paintings.
The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark.
The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark.
It is a beautiful trait in the lover's character, that they think no evil of the object loved.
It is a beautiful trait in the lover's character, that they think no evil of the object loved.
