Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting.

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor. Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead Which, the more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

The star of the unconquered will.

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

There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there; There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair.

Not in the clamor of the crowded street, Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year's nest!

Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.