The Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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James R. Osgood, 1871 - English poetry - 363 pages
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Page 134 - and vapors ; May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor
Page 11 - A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 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
Page 130 - the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! THE EVENING STAR. JUST above yon sandy
Page 134 - Leave no yawning gaps between ; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the Gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen ; Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Page 41 - with the strange device, Excelsior I There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior ! POEMS ON SLAVERY. 1843. [The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October,
Page 11 - THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. "Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he; " Have naught but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all
Page 329 - the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away ! ENCELADUS. UNDER Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death ; For he struggles at times to arise, And above
Page 37 - sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on
Page 203 - By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest. Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them ; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.
Page 97 - we find. RETRIBUTION. THOUGH the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small ; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all. WHEN by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's fire, Ha

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