Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ( 10 of 238 )
Music is the universal language of mankind.
Music is the universal language of mankind.
Man-like it is to fall into sin; fiendlike it is to dwell therein.
Man-like it is to fall into sin; fiendlike it is to dwell therein.
Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating read more
Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in
the green stillness of the country, where he read more
Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in
the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart
of Nature beat, or in the dark, gray town where he can hear and
feel the throbbing heart of man?
Though he was rough, he was kindly.
Though he was rough, he was kindly.
The song on its mighty pinions
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven.
The song on its mighty pinions
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven.
He loved the twilight that surrounds
The border-land of old romance;
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance,
read more
He loved the twilight that surrounds
The border-land of old romance;
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance,
And banner waves, and trumpet sounds,
And ladies ride with hawk on wrist,
And mighty warriors sweep along,
Magnified by the purple mist,
The dusk of centuries and of song.
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
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A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
For his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.
For his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.
