Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Beneath me flows the Rhine, and, like the stream of Time, it
flows amid the ruins of the Past.

Beneath me flows the Rhine, and, like the stream of Time, it
flows amid the ruins of the Past.

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.

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.

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

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant read more

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness:
So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,