The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowBelieve me, every man has his secret sorrows, which the world knows not; and oftimes we call a man cold when he is only sad.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowTo charm, to strengthen, and to teach: these are the three great chords of might.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowThe sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowOne if by land, two if by sea.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowStichwörter: america american-revolution britain paul-revere-s-ride
Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest!
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowStichwörter: friendship
He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowStichwörter: death angel footprints gravestone death-angel
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowI am weary of your quarrels,
Weary of your wars and bloodshed,
Weary of your prayers for vengeance,
Of your wranglings and dissensions
Stichwörter: war myth native-american legends
Endymion
The rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,
Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.
On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.
It comes,--the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,--
In silence and alone
To seek the elected one.
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
Responds,--as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;
And whispers, in its song,
"Where hast thou stayed so long?
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