Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter
Of the Eternal's language;--on earth it is called Forgiveness!

For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter
Of the Eternal's language;--on earth it is called Forgiveness!

The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; the secret anniversaries of the heart.

The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; the secret anniversaries of the heart.

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance.
. . . .
And, when the echoes had read more

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance.
. . . .
And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the
silence.

Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?
Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
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Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?
Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
The dialect they speak, where melodies
Alone are the interpreters of thought?
Whose household words are songs in many keys,
Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

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.