Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sleep... Oh! how I loathe those little slices of death....

Sleep... Oh! how I loathe those little slices of death....

Shepherds at the grange,
Where the Babe was born,
Sang with many a change,
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Shepherds at the grange,
Where the Babe was born,
Sang with many a change,
Christmas carols until morn.

A boy's will is the wind's will.

A boy's will is the wind's will.

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.

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when read more

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.