Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ( 10 of 238 )
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.
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.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
Listen to that song, and learn it!
Half my kingdom would I give,
As I live,
read more
Listen to that song, and learn it!
Half my kingdom would I give,
As I live,
If by such songs you would earn it.
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,),
A boy's will is the wind's will.
A boy's will is the wind's will.
They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so read more
They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!
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!
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.
