Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Time has laid his hand Upon my heart gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

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.

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on, for him who with a fervent heart goes forth under the bright and glorious sky, and looks on duties well performed, and days well spent.

The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.

He has singed the beard of the king of Spain.

Sleep . . . Oh! how I loathe those little slices of death . . . .

There is no greater sorrow Than to be mindful of the happy time In misery.

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.

Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long,- Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried!