Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating read more

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

Ah! what would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert read more

Ah! what would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

Every human heart is human.

Every human heart is human.

This is the forest primeval.

This is the forest primeval.

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!