Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poems
|521.||The Village Blacksmith||1/3/2003|
|522.||An April Day||12/31/2002|
|524.||I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day||1/3/2004|
|525.||Footsteps Of Angels||12/31/2002|
|527.||The Arrow And The Song||12/31/2002|
|528.||A Gleam Of Sunshine||12/31/2002|
|529.||A Psalm Of Life||12/31/2002|
A Psalm Of Life
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
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.
In the ...
Village Blacksmith, The
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The Smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;