Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poems

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,
...

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in 'Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
...

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a might man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
...

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.
...

It is autumn; not without
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.
...

'I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
...

The sun is set; and in his latest beams
Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold,
Slowly upon the amber air unrolled,
...

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
...

When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.
...

'A soldier of the Union mustered out,'
Is the inscription on an unknown grave
At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave,
...