Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Even cities have their graves!

Even cities have their graves!

Into each life some rain must fall, some days be dark and dreary.

Into each life some rain must fall, some days be dark and dreary.

It was Autumn, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the read more

It was Autumn, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the apples
Burned among the withering leaves.

That beautiful season
. . . the Summer of All-Saints!
Filled was the air with a dreamy read more

That beautiful season
. . . the Summer of All-Saints!
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the
landscape
Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon read more

I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose over the city,
Behind the dark church tower.