Maxioms by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Art is the child of Nature; yes, her darling child, in whom we trace the features of the mother's face, read more
Art is the child of Nature; yes, her darling child, in whom we trace the features of the mother's face, her aspect and her attitude.
Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was read more
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. 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.
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the read more
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
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A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.
As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.
