Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Though he was rough, he was kindly.

Though he was rough, he was kindly.

The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries read more

The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart,
When the full river of feeling overflows;--
The happy days unclouded to their close;
The sudden joys that our of darkness start
As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!

To the red rising moon, and loud and deep
The nightingale is singing from the steep.

To the red rising moon, and loud and deep
The nightingale is singing from the steep.

Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors
Veiled the light of his face, like the read more

Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from
Sinai.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And out hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled read more

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And out hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.