written by Henry Wadsworth LongfellowIt is autumn; not without
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.
Birds are darting through the air,
Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
Save within my lonely breast.
There is silence: the dead leaves
Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves,
Comes no murmur from the mill.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, published on Tue 05.06.2008 at 23:14
Full of wrath was Hiawatha
When he came into the village,
Found the people in confusion,
Heard of all the misdemeanors,
written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, published on Tue 04.29.2008 at 17:37
DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD.
We sat within the farm-house old,
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,
written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, published on Wed 04.16.2008 at 23:15
When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, published on Sun 04.06.2008 at 04:10
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a might man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, published on Fri 03.21.2008 at 14:52
I pace the sounding sea-beach and behold
How the voluminous billows roll and run,
Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun
written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, published on Fri 03.14.2008 at 21:46
In his lodge beside a river,
Close beside a frozen river,
Sat an old man, sad and lonely.
White his hair was as a snow-drift;