Midnight Mass for the Dying Year (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poem)
Yes, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks ...
Yes, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks ...
L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des ...
The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The ...
Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies! Thou whose ...
This is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy Past The ...
INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER Come, old friend! sit down and listen! From the pitcher, placed between us, How the ...
Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, Like a fair lady at her ...
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a ...
I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed ...
Loud he sang the psalm of David! He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory, Sang of Zion, bright ...
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, ...
The rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows ...
The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ...
I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, ...
There is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in ...
The night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the ...
Dear child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, ...
I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, ...
Filled is Life's goblet to the brim; And though my eyes with tears are dim, I see its sparkling bubbles ...
How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, ...
No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. Spanish Proverb The sun is bright,--the air is clear, The darting swallows ...
When winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, ...
When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'T is sweet to visit the still wood, ...
Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried ...
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its ...
Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, ...
It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear ...
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings ...
When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To ...
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but ...
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