Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ( 10 of 238 )
These faces in the mirrors
Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself.
These faces in the mirrors
Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself.
Oh, well has it been said, that there is no grief like the grief
which does not speak!
Oh, well has it been said, that there is no grief like the grief
which does not speak!
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the read more
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
Tell your master that if there were as many devils at Worms as
tiles on its roofs, I would read more
Tell your master that if there were as many devils at Worms as
tiles on its roofs, I would enter.
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
Listen, every one
That listen may, unto a tale
That's merrier than the nightingale.
read more
Listen, every one
That listen may, unto a tale
That's merrier than the nightingale.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Tales of a Wayside Inn (pt. III,),
The atmosphere
Breathes rest and comfort and the many chambers
Seem full of welcomes.
The atmosphere
Breathes rest and comfort and the many chambers
Seem full of welcomes.
The Rhine! the Rhine! a blessing on the Rhine!
The Rhine! the Rhine! a blessing on the Rhine!
A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain, and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles read more
A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain, and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles the rain.
