Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(27 February 1807 – 24 March 1882 / Portland, Maine)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poems

521. An April Day 12/31/2002
522. Aftermath 1/1/2004
523. Children 12/31/2002
524. Autumn 12/31/2002
525. 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
Best Poem of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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 ...

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Memories

Oft I remember those I have known
In other days, to whom my heart was lead
As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
But absent, and their memories overgrown
With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
As graves with grasses are, and at their head
The stone with moss and lichens so o'er spread,
Nothing is legible but the name alone.
And is it so with them? After long years.

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