Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor read more

Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.

Romance is the poetry of literature.

Romance is the poetry of literature.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
and read more

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.
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.

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 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.