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. (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat. (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
So when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men. (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
The tree of life has been shaken, And but few of us linger now, Like the prophets two or three berries In the top of the uppermost bough. (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "")
Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the flowers, Kind deeds are the fruits, Take care of your garden And keep out the weeds, Fill it with sunshine Kind words and kind deeds (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor. Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead Which, the more splendid, may not please him more So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know. (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)