Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ( 10 of 238 )
The human voice is the organ of the soul.
The human voice is the organ of the soul.
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.
Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater
To raise the dead to life than to create
read more
Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater
To raise the dead to life than to create
Phantoms that seem to live.
Being all fashioned of the self-same dust,
Let us be merciful as well as just.
Being all fashioned of the self-same dust,
Let us be merciful as well as just.
It cometh into court and pleads the cause
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws;
And read more
It cometh into court and pleads the cause
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws;
And this shall make, in every Christian clime,
The bell of Atri famous for all time.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
I love the season well
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded read more
I love the season well
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming of storms.
These bells have been anointed,
And baptized with holy water!
These bells have been anointed,
And baptized with holy water!
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant read more
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness:
So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so changes of
studies a dull brain.
As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so changes of
studies a dull brain.
The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries read more
The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart,
When the full river of feeling overflows;--
The happy days unclouded to their close;
The sudden joys that our of darkness start
As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
