Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poems
|522.||An April Day||12/31/2002|
|524.||Footsteps Of Angels||12/31/2002|
|526.||I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day||1/3/2004|
|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 ...
The Belfrey Of Bruges
In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfrey old and brown;
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town.
As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood,
And the world through off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood.
Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray,
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.