Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, And through the opening door that time unlocks Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.

I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet.

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

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.

St. Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

Where'er a noble deed is wrought, Where'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise.

Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies; Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artist never dies.

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where, across broad meadow-lands, Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremburg, the ancient, stands.Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, …

And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where.

Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time shall disappear,— Forever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly,—

She floats upon the river of his thoughts.

Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch! while in slumbers light She sleeps.

Stars of the summer night! Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps!

Music is the universal language of mankind — poetry their universal pastime and delight.

They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.