Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in
the green stillness of the country, where he read more

Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in
the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart
of Nature beat, or in the dark, gray town where he can hear and
feel the throbbing heart of man?

See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft
So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away
Over the read more

See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft
So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away
Over the snowy peaks!

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.

The things that have been and shall be no more,
The things that are, and that hereafter shall be,
read more

The things that have been and shall be no more,
The things that are, and that hereafter shall be,
The things that might have been, and yet were not,
The fading twilight of joys departed.

Seize the loud, vociferous fells, and
Clashing, clanging to the pavement
Hurl them from their windy tower!

Seize the loud, vociferous fells, and
Clashing, clanging to the pavement
Hurl them from their windy tower!