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Still Stands The Forest Primeval; But Far Away From Its Shadow, Side By Side, In Their Nameless Graves, The Lovers Are Sleeping.under The Humble Walls Of The Little Catholic Churchyard,in The Heart Of The City, They Lie, Unknown And Unnoticed;daily The Tides Of Life Go Ebbing And Flowing Beside Them,thousands Of Throbbing Hearts, Where Theirs Are At Rest And Forever,thousands Of Aching Brains, Where Theirs No Longer Are Busy,thousands Of Toiling Hands, Where Theirs Have Ceased From Their Labors,thousands Of Weary Feet, Where Theirs Have Completed Their Journey!

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Still Stands The Forest

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Still Stands The Forest Primeval; But Far Away From Its Shadow, Side By Side, In Their Nameless Graves, The Lovers Are Sleeping.under The Humble Walls Of The Little Catholic Churchyard,in The Heart Of The City, They Lie, Unknown And Unnoticed;daily The Tides Of Life Go Ebbing And Flowing Beside Them,thousands Of Throbbing Hearts, Where Theirs Are At Rest And Forever,thousands Of Aching Brains, Where Theirs No Longer Are Busy,thousands Of Toiling Hands, Where Theirs Have Ceased From Their Labors,thousands Of Weary Feet, Where Theirs Have Completed Their Journey!

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More From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Young May Die, But The Old Must!

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 Low Desire, The Base Design That Makes Another's Virtues Less.

In The Lives Of The Saddest Of Us, There Are Bright Days Like This, When We Feel As If We Could Take The Great World In Our Arms And Kiss It. Then Come The Gloomy Hours, When The Fire Will Neither Burn On Our Hearths Nor In Our Hearts; And All Without And Within Is Dismal, Cold, And Dark. Believe Me, Every Heart Has Its Secret Sorrows, Which The World Knows Not, And Oftentimes We Call A Man Cold, When He Is Only Sad.

But The Great Master Said, "i See No Best In Kind, But In Degree; I Gave A Various Gift To Each, To Charm, To Strengthen, And To Teach".

At Daybreak, On The Bleak Sea-beach, A Fisherman Stood Aghast, To See The Form Of A Maiden Fair, Lashed Close To A Drifting Mast.

Life Like An Empty Dream Flits By.

Ah, How Good It Feels! The Hand Of An Old Friend.

People Demand Freedom Only When They Have No Power.

People Of A Lively Imagination Are Generally Curious, And Always So When A Little In Love.

Nature Is A Revelation Of God; Art A Revelation Of Man.

The Life Of Woman Is Full Of Woe, Toiling On And On And On, With Breaking Heart, And Tearful Eyes, The Secret Longings That Arise, Which This World Never Satisfies! Some More, Some Less, But Of The Whole Not One Quite Happy, No, Not One!

Where, Twisted Round The Barren Oak, The Summer Vine In Beauty Clung, And Summer Winds The Stillness Broke, The Crystal Icicle Is Hung.

Don Quixote Thought He Could Have Made Beautiful Bird-cages And Toothpicks If His Brain Had Not Been So Full Of Ideas Of Chivalry. Most People Would Succeed In Small Things If They Were Not Troubled With Great Ambitions.

But Ah! What Once Has Been Shall Be No More! The Groaning Earth In Travail And In Pain Brings Forth Its Races, But Does Not Restore, And The Dead Nations Never Rise Again.

No Action, Whether Foul Or Fair, Is Ever Done, But It Leaves Somewhere A Record, Written By Fingers Ghostly, As A Blessing Or A Curse, And Mostly In The Greater Weakness Or Greater Strength Of The Acts Which Follow It.

Think Not Because No Man Sees, Such Things Will Remain Unseen.

O Summer Day Beside The Joyous Sea! O Summer Day So Wonderful And White, So Full Of Gladness And So Full Of Pain! Forever And Forever Shalt Thou Be To Some The Gravestone Of A Dead Delight, To Some The Landmark Of A New Domain.

Mine Is The Month Of Roses; Yes, And Mine The Month Of Marriages! All Pleasant Sights And Scents, The Fragrance Of The Blossoming Vine, The Foliage Of The Valleys And The Heights. Mine Are The Longest Days, The Loveliest Nights; The Mower's Scythe Makes Music To My Ear; I Am The Mother Of All Dear Delights; I Am The Fairest Daughter Of The Year.

In What A Forge And What A Heat Were Shaped The Anchors Of Thy Hope! Fear Not Each Sudden Sound And Shock; 'tis Of The Wave And Not The Rock.

The Little I Have Seen Of The World Teaches Me To Look Upon The Errors Of Others In Sorrow, Not In Anger. When I Take The History Of One Poor Heart That Has Sinned And Suffered, And Represent To Myself The Struggles And Temptations It Has Passed Through, The Brief Pulsations Of Joy, The Feverish Inquietude Of Hope And Fear, The Pressure Of Want, The Desertion Of Friends, I Would Fain Leave The Erring Soul Of My Fellow-man With Him From Whose Hand It Came.

Happy Art Thou, As If Every Day Thou Hadst Picked Up A Horseshoe.

Love Is A Bodily Shape; And Christian Works Are No More Than Animate Faith And Love, As Flowers Are The Animate Springtide.

There Are Favorable Hours For Reading A Book, As For Writing It.

As The Heart Is, So Is Love To The Heart. It Partakes Of Its Strength Or Weakness, Its Health Or Disease.

Time, Like A Preacher In The Days Of The Puritans, Turned The Hour-glass On His High Pulpit, The Church Belfry.

A Great Sorrow, Like A Mariner's Quadrant, Brings The Sun At Noon Down To The Horizon, And We Learn Where We Are On The Sea Of Life.

When Christ Ascended Triumphantly From Star To Star He Left The Gates Of Heaven Ajar.

Will Without Power Is Like Children Playing At Soldiers.

Ah, To Build, To Build! That Is The Noblest Of All The Arts.

The History Of The Past Is A Mere Puppet-show. A Little Man Comes Out And Blows A Little Trumpet, And Goes In Again. You Look For Something New, And Lo! Another Little Man Comes Out, And Blows Another Little Trumpet, And Goes In Again. And It Is All Over.

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.

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.

There Is A Beautiful Spirit Breathing Now Its Mellowed Richness On The Clustered Trees, And, From A Beaker Full Of Richest Dyes, Pouring New Glory On The Autumn Woods, And Dipping In Warm Light The Pillared Clouds. Morn On The Mountain, Like A Summer Bird, Lifts Up Her Purple Wing, And In The Vales The Gentle Wind, A Sweet And Passionate Wooer, Kisses The Blushing Leaf, And Stirs Up Life Within The Solemn Woods Of Ash Deep-crimsoned, And Silver Beech, And Maple Yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, Like A Faint Old Man, Sits Down By The Wayside A-weary.

Spake Full Well, In Language Quaint And Olden, One Who Dwelleth By The Castled Rhine, When He Called The Flowers, So Blue And Golden, Stars, That In Earth's Firmament Do Shine.

Being All Fashioned Of The Self-same Dust, Let Us Be Merciful As Well As Just

Thus Departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha The Beloved, In The Glory Of The Sunset, In The Purple Mists Of Evening, To The Regions Of The Home-wind, Of The Northwest-wind, Keewaydin, To The Islands Of The Blessed, To The Kingdom Of Ponemah, To The Land Of The Hereafter!

Out Of The Bosom Of The Air, Out Of The Cloud-folds Of Her Garments Shaken, Over The Woodlands Brown And Bare, Over The Harvest-fields Forsaken, Silent, And Soft, And Slow Descends The Snow.

When You Ask One Friend To Dine, Give Him Your Best Wine! When You Ask Two, The Second Best Will Do!

Like Black Hulks The Shadows Of The Great Trees Ride At Anchor On The Billowy Sea Of Grass.

The Sun Is Set; And In His Latest Beams Yon Little Cloud Of Ashen Gray And Gold, Slowly Upon The Amber Air Unrolled, The Falling Mantle Of The Prophet Seems.

Tell Me Not, In Mournful Numbers, Life Is But An Empty Dream!

If A Woman Shows Too Often The Medusa's Head, She Must Not Be Astonished If Her Lover Is Turned Into Stone.

These Stars Of Earth, These Golden Flowers.

Sang In Tones Of Deep Emotion Songs Of Love And Songs Of Longing.

O Lovely Eyes Of Azure, Clear As The Waters Of A Brook That Run Limpid And Laughing In The Summer Sun!

In December Ring Every Day The Chimes; Loud The Gleemen Sing In The Streets Their Merry Rhymes. Let Us By The Fire Ever Higher Sing Them Till The Night Expire!

Saint 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.

God's Voice Was Not In The Earthquake, Not In The Fire, Nor The Storm, But It Was In The Whispering Breezes.

Ambition Is So Powerful A Passion In The Human Breast, That However High We Reach We Are Never Satisfied.

Thus Thought I, As By Night I Read Of The Great Army Of The Dead, The Trenches Cold And Damp, The Starved And Frozen Camp,-- The Wounded From The Battle-plain, In Dreary Hospitals Of Pain, The Cheerless Corridors, The Cold And Stony Floors. Lo! In That House Of Misery A Lady With A Lamp I See Pass Through The Glimmering Gloom And Flit From Room To Room. And Slow, As In A Dream Of Bliss, The Speechless Sufferer Turns To Kiss Her Shadow, As It Falls Upon The Darkening Walls.

All Things Come Round To Him Who Will But Wait.

It Is Foolish To Pretend That One Is Fully Recovered From A Disappointed Passion. Such Wounds Always Leave A Scar.

Our Faith Triumphant O'er Our Fears.

Ne Speaketh Not; And Yet There Lies A Conversation In His Eyes.

The Country Is Lyric, The Town Dramatic. When Mingled, They Make The Most Perfect Musical Drama.

How Can I Tell The Signals And The Signs By Which One Heart Another Heart Divines? How Can I Tell The Many Thousand Ways By Which It Keeps The Secret It Betrays?

The Soul Never Grows Old.

Each Morning Sees Some Task Begin, Each Evening Sees It Close.

By The Shores Of Gitchee 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.

Sculpture Is More Than Painting. It Is Greater To Raise The Dead To Life Than To Create Phantoms That Seem To Live.

Every Man Must Patiently Bide His Time. He Must Wait -- Not In Listless Idleness But In Constant, Steady, Cheerful Endeavors, Always Willing And Fulfilling And Accomplishing His Task, That When The Occasion Comes He May Be Equal To The Occasion.

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls The Burial-ground God's-acre! It Is Just; It Consecrates Each Grave Within Its Walls, And Breathes A Benison O'er The Sleeping Dust.

The Strength Of Criticism Lies In The Weakness Of The Thing Criticized.

Do Not Delay, Do Not Delay: The Golden Moments Fly!

Procrastination

The Day Is Dark And Cold And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary.

Often Times We Call A Man [or Woman] Cold When He [or She] Is Only Sad.

Youth Comes But Once In A Lifetime.

A Noble Type Of Good. Heroic Womanhood.

Youth Comes But Once A Life Time. Perhaps, But It Remains Strong In Many For Their Entire Lives.

Let The Dead Past Bury Its Dead!

Southward With Fleet Of Ice Sailed The Corsair Death; Wild And Fast Blew The Blast, And The East-wind Was His Breath.

Three Silences There Are: The First Of Speech, The Second Of Desire, The Third Of Thought.

O Ye Dead Poets, Who Are Living Still Immortal In Your Verse, Though Life Be Fled, And Ye, O Living Poets, Who Are Dead Though Ye Are Living, If Neglect Can Kill, Tell Me If In The Darkest Hours Of Ill, With Drops Of Anguish Falling Fast And Red From The Sharp Crown Of Thorns Upon Your Head, Ye Were Not Glad Your Errand To Fulfill?

The Twilight That Surrounds The Border-land Of Old Romance.

There Are Things Of Which I May Not Speak; There Are Dreams That Cannot Die; There Are Thoughts That Make The Strong Heart Weak, And Bring A Pallor Into The Cheek, And A Mist Before The Eye.

My Soul Is Full Of Longing For The Secret Of The Sea, And The Heart Of The Great Ocean Sends A Thrilling Pulse Through Me.

Under A Spreading Chestnut-tree The Village Smithy Stands; The Smith, A Mighty Man Is He, With Large And Sinewy Hands; And The Muscles Of His Brawny Arms Are Strong As Iron Bands.

Who Dares To Say That He Alone Has Found The Truth?

The Sea Hath Its Pearls The Heaven Hath Its Stars But My Heart, My Heart Has Its Love.

The Mind Of The Scholar, If He Would Leave It Large And Liberal, Should Come In Contact With Other Minds.

Each Morning Sees Some Task Begun, Each Evening Sees It Close; Something Attempted, Something Done, Has Earned A Night's Repose.

Music Is The Universal Language Of Mankind.

The Grave Itself Is But A Covered Bridge, Leading From Light To Light, Through A Brief Darkness!

Look Not Mournfully Into The Past, It Comes Not Back Again. Wisely Improve The Present, It Is Thine. Go Forth To Meet The Shadowy Future Without Fear And With A Manly Heart.

Softly The Evening Came. The Sun From The Western Horizon Like A Magician Extended His Golden Want O'er The Landscape; Trinkling Vapors Arose; And Sky And Water And Forest Seemed All On Fire At The Touch, And Melted And Mingled Together.

They Who Go Feel Not The Pain Of Parting; It Is They Who Stay Behind That Suffer.

The Foods That Prolong Life And Increase Purity, Vigour, Health, Cheerfulness, And Happiness Are Those That Are Delicious, Soothing, Substantial And Agreeable... Foods That Are Bitter, Sour, Salt, Over-hot, Pungent, Dry And Burning Produce Unhappiness, Repentance And Disease.

Stay, Stay At Home, My Heart And Rest; Home-keeping Hearts Are The Happiest, For Those That Wander They Know Not Where Are Full Of Trouble And Full Of Care; To Stay At Home Is Best.

When We Walk Towards The Sun Of Truth, All Shadows Are Cast Behind Us.

Sail On Ship Of State, Sail On, I Union, Strong And Great! Humanity With All Its Fears, With All Its Hopes Of Future Years, Is Hanging On Thy Fate!

It Is The Heart And Not The Brain, That To The Highest Doth Attain.

Write On Your Doors The Saying Wise And Old, "be Bold! Be Bold!" And Everywhere - "be Bold; Be Not Too Bold!" Yet Better The Excess Than The Defect; Better The More Than Less; Better Like Hector In The Field To Die, Than Like A Perfumed Paris Turn And Fly.

Many Readers Judge Of The Power Of A Book By The Shock It Gives Their Feelings.

History Casts Its Shadow Far Into The Land Of Song.

This Song Of Mine Is A Song Of The Vine To Be Sung By The Glowing Embers Of Wayside Inns, When The Rain Begins To Darken The Drear Novembers. And For The Richest And Best Is The Wind Of The West That Grows By The Beautiful River; Whose Sweet Perfume Fills All The Room With A Bension On The Giver. And When You Ask One Friend To Dine, Give Hime Your Best Wine! When You Ask Two, The Second Best Will Do.

There Are Two Angels That Attend Unseen Each One Of Us, And In Great Books Record Our Good And Evil Deeds. He Who Writes Down The Good Ones, After Every Action Closes His Volume, And Ascends With It To God. The Other Keeps His Dreadful Day-book Open Till Sunset, That We May Repent; Which Doing, The Record Of The Action Fades Away, And Leaves A Line Of White Across The Page. Now If My Act Be Good, As I Believe It, It Cannot Be Recalled. It Is Already Sealed Up In Heaven, As A Good Deed Accomplished. The Rest Is Yours.

Think Of Your Woods And Orchards Without Birds! Of Empty Nests That Cling To Boughs And Beams As In An Idiot's Brain Remembered Words Hang Empty 'mid The Cobwebs Of His Dreams!

The Everyday Cares And Duties, Which Men Call Drudgery, Are The Weights And Counterpoises Of The Clock Of Time, Giving Its Pendulum A True Vibration And Its Hands A Regular Motion; And When They Cease To Hang Upon Its Wheels, The Pendulum No Longer Swings, The Hands No Longer Move The Clock Stands Still.

How Beautiful The Silent Hour, When Morning And Evening Thus Sit Together, Hand In Hand, Beneath The Starless Sky Of Midnight!

To-day, To-morrow, Every Day, To Thousands The End Of The World Is Close At Hand. And Why Should We Fear It? We Walk Here, As It Were, In The Crypts Of Life; At Times, From The Great Cathedral Above Us, We Can Hear The Organ And The Chanting Choir; We See The Light Stream Through The Open Door, When Some Friend Goes Up Before Us; And Shall We Fear To Mount The Narrow Staircase Of The Grave That Leads Us Out Of This Uncertain Twilight Into Life Eternal?

For Next To Being A Great Poet Is The Power Of Understanding One.

The Emigrant's Way O'er The Western Desert Is Mark'd By Camp-fires Long Consum'd And Bones That Bleach In The Sunshine.

One, If By Land, And Two, If By Sea; And I On The Opposite Shore Will Be, Ready To Ride And Spread The Alarm Through Every Middlesex Village And Farm For The Country Folk To Be Up And To Arm.

Doubtless Criticism Was Originally Benignant, Pointing Out The Beauties Of A Work Rather That Its Defects. The Passions Of Men Have Made It Malignant, As A Bad Heart Of Procreates Turned The Bed, The Symbol Of Repose, Into An Instrument Of Torture.

The Mormons Make The Marriage Ring, Like The Ring Of Saturn, Fluid, Not Solid, And Keep It In Its Place By Numerous Satellites.

Beautiful In Form And Feature, Lovely As The Day, Can There Be So Fair A Creature Formed Of Common Clay?

The Surest Pledge Of A Deathless Name Is The Silent Homage Of Thoughts Unspoken.

A Stiff Letter Galls One Like A Stiff Shirt Collar -- Whilst A Sheet Garnished Here And There With A Careless Blot -- And Here And There A Dash -- But In The Main Full Of Excellent Matter, Is Like A Clever Fellow In A Dirty Shirt Whom We Value For The Good Humour He Brings With Him And Not For The Garb He Wears.

The Tragic Element In Poetry Is Like Saturn In Alchemy, The Malevolent, The Destroyer Of Nature ; But Without It No True Aurum Potabile, Or Elixir Of Life, Can Be Made.

Defeat May Be Victory In Disguise.

The Sky Is Filled With Stars, Invisible By Day.

For It Is The Fate Of A Woman Long To Be Patient And Silent, To Wait Like A Ghost That Is Speechless, Till Some Questioning Voice Dissolves The Spell Of Its Silence. Hence Is The Inner Life Of So Many Suffering Women Sunless And Silent And Deep, Like Subterranean Rivers Runnng Through Caverns Of Darkness.

The Nearer The Dawn The Darker The Night.

The Rays Of Happiness, Like Those Of Light, Are Colorless When Unbroken.

Trouble Is The Next Best Thing To Enjoyment; There Is No Fate In The World So Horrible As To Have No Share In Either Its Joys Or Sorrows.

O Holy Trust! O Endless Sense Of Rest! Like The Beloved John To Lay His Head Upon The Saviour's Breast, And Thus To Journey On!

To Be Seventy Years Old Is Like Climbing The Alps. You Reach A Snow-crowned Summit, And See Behind You The Deep Valley Stretching Miles And Miles Away, And Before You Other Summits Higher And Whiter, Which You May Have Strength To Climb, Or May Not. Then You Sit Down And Meditate And Wonder Which It Will Be.

The Motives And Purposes Of Authors Are Not Always So Pure And High, As, In The Enthusiasm Of Youth, We Sometimes Imagine. To Many The Trumpet Of Fame Is Nothing But A Tin Horn To Call Them Home, Like Laborers From, The Field, At Dinner-time, And They Think Themselves Lucky To Get The Dinner.

O Gift Of God! O Perfect Day: Whereon Shall No Man Work, But Play; Whereon It Is Enough For Me, Not To Be Doing, But To Be!

What Discord We Should Bring Into The Universe If Our Prayers Were All Answered. Then We Should Govern The World And Not God. And Do You Think We Should Govern It Better? It Gives Me Only Pain When I Hear The Long, Wearisome Petitions Of People Asking For They Know Not What. . . . Thanks-giving With A Full Heart-and The Rest Silence And Submission To The Divine Will!

See Yonder Fire! It Is The Moon Slow Rising O'er The Eastern Hill. It Glimmers On The Forest Tips, And Through The Dewy Foliage Drips In Little Rivulets Of Light, And Makes The Heart In Love With Night.

Ships That Pass In The Night, And Speak Each Other In Passing, Only A Signal Shown, And A Distant Voice In The Darkness; So On The Ocean Of Life, We Pass And Speak One Another, Only A Look And A Voice, Then Darkness Again And A Silence.

Resolve And Thou Art Free.

The Human Voice Is The Organ Of The Soul.

Ah Me! What Wonder-working, Occult Science Can From The Ashes In Our Hearts Once More The Rose Of Youth Restore? What Craft Of Alchemy Can Bid Defiance To Time And Change, And For A Single Hour Renew This Phantom-flower?

God Is Not Dead; Nor Doth He Sleep; ... The Wrong Shall Fail, The Right Prevail, With Peace On Earth, Good Will To Men.

And When She Was Good She Was Very Very Good. But When She Was Bad She Was Horrid.

There Is Nothing Perfectly Secure But Poverty.

The True Poet Is A Friendly Man. He Takes To His Arms Even Cold And Inanimate Things, And Rejoices In His Heart.

Many A Poem Is Marred By A Superfluous Verse.

Ripe In Wisdom Was He, But Patient, And Simple, And Childlike.

The Things That Have Been And Shall Be No More, The Things That Are, And That Hereafter Shall Be, The Things That Might Have Been, And Yet Were Not, The Fading Twilight Of Joys Departed.

I Have An Affection For A Great City. I Feel Safe In The Neighborhood Of Man, And Enjoy The Sweet Security Of The Streets.

The Pleasant Books, That Silently Among Our Household Treasures Take Familiar Places, And Are To Us As If A Living Tongue Spake From The Printed Leaves Or Pictured Faces!

Nor Deem The Irrevocable Past As Wholly Wasted, Wholly Vain, If, Rising On Its Wrecks, At Last To Something Nobler We Attain.

The Day Is Cold, And Dark, And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind In Never Weary; The Vine Still Clings To The Mouldering Wall, But At Every Gust The Dead Leaves Fall, And The Day Is Dark And Dreary.

Thought Takes Man Out Of Servitude, Into Freedom.

Standing, With Reluctant Feet, Where The Brook And River Meet, Womanhood And Childhood Fleet!

What Child Has A Heart To Sing In This Capricious Clime Of Ours, When Spring Comes Sailing In From The Sea, With Wet And Heavy Cloud-sails And The Misty Pennon Of The East-wind Nailed To The Mast.

Let Us Be Merciful As Well As Just.

Never Idle A Moment, But Thrifty And Thoughtful Of Others.

O Little Feet! That Such Long Years Must Wander On Through Hopes And Fears, Must Ache And Bleed Beneath Your Load; I, Nearer To The Wayside Inn Where Toil Shall Cease And Rest Begin, Am Weary, Thinking Of Your Road!

Thinking Of You

Then Fell Upon The House A Sudden Gloom, A Shadow On Those Features Fair And Thin. And Softly, From The Hushed And Darkened Room, Two Angels Issued, Where But One Went In.

The Hearts Of Some Women Tremble Like Leaves At Every Breath Of Love Which Reaches Them, And They Are Still Again. Others, Like The Ocean, Are Moved Only By The Breath Of A Storm, And Not So Easily Lulled To Rest.

Many Readers Judge Of The Power Of A Book By The Shock It Gives Their Feelings - As Some Savage Tribes Determine The Power Of Muskets By Their Recoil; That Being Considered Best Which Fairly Prostrates The Purchaser.

Then Followed That Beautiful Season... Summer.... Filled Was The Air With A Dreamy And Magical Light; And The Landscape Lay As If New Created In All The Freshness Of Childhood.

Let Us Then Be Up And Doing, With A Heart For Any Fate, Still Achieving, Still Pursuing, Learn To Labor And To Wait.

All That Is Best In The Great Poets Of All Countries Is Not What Is National In Them, But What Is Universal.

Races, Better Than We, Have Leaned On Her Wavering Promise, Having Naught Else But Hope.

No One Is So Accursed By Fate, No One So Utterly Desolate, But Some Heart Though Unknown Responds Unto His Own.

It Was Autumn, And Incessant Piped The Quails From Shocks And Sheaves, And, Like Living Coals, The Apples Burned Among The Withering Leaves.

The First Pressure Of Sorrow Crushes Out From Our Hearts The Best Wine; Afterwards The Constant Weight Of It Brings Forth Bitterness, The Taste And Stain From The Lees Of The Vat.

As Great Pythagoras Of Yore, Standing Beside The Blacksmith's Door, And Hearing The Hammers, As They Smote The Anvils With A Different Note, Stole From The Varying Tones, That Hung Vibrant On Every Iron Tongue, The Secret Of The Sounding Wire. And Formed The Seven-chorded Lyre.

And As She Looked Around, She Saw How Death The Consoler, Laying His Hand Upon Many A Heart, Had Healed It Forever.

Between The Dark And The Daylight, When The Night Is Beginning To Lower, Comes A Pause In The Day's Occupations, That Is Known As The Children's Hour.

The Picture That Approaches Sculpture Nearest Is The Best Picture.

In The Mouths Of Many Men Soft Words Are Like Roses That Soldiers Put Into The Muzzles Of Their Muskets On Holidays.

God Sifted A Whole Nation That He Might Send Choice Grain Over Into This Wilderness.

That Which The Fountain Sends Forth Returns Again To The Fountain.

I Love Thee, As The Good Love Heaven.

How Beautiful Is The Rain! After The Dust And The Heat, In The Broad And Fiery Street, In The Narrow Lane, How Beautiful Is The Rain!

Every Man Has His Secret Sorrows.

He Had Mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic Mittens Made Of Deer-skin; When Upon His Hands He Wore Them, He Could Smite The Rocks Asunder, He Could Grind Them Into Powder.

Even The Blackest Of Them All, The Crow, Renders Good Service As Your Man-at-arms, Crushing The Beetle In His Coat Of Mail. And Crying Havoc On The Slug And Snail.

Dost Thou Know What A Hero Is? Why, A Hero Is As Much As One Should Say, A Hero.

Youth, Hope, And Love: To Build A New Life On A Ruined Life, To Make The Future Fairer Than The Past, And Make The Past Appear A Troubled Dream.

Prayer Is Innocence's Friend; And Willingly Flieth Incessant 'twist The Earth And The Sky, The Carrier-pigeon Of Heaven.

Nature Paints Not; In Oils, But Frescoes The Great Dome Of Heaven; With Sunsets, And The Lovely Forms Of Clouds; And Flying Vapors.

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It.

Age Is Opportunity No Less Than Youth Itself.

Nothing That Is Can Pause Or Stay; / The Moon Will Wax, The Moon Will Wane, / The Mist And Cloud Will Turn To Rain, / The Rain To Mist And Cloud Again, / Tomorrow Be Today.

We Waste Our Best Years In Distilling The Sweetest Flowers Of Life Into Potions Which, After All, Do Not Immortalize, But Only Intoxicate.

The Great Tragedy Of The Average Man Is That He Goes To His Grave With His Music Still In Him.

I Have A Passion For Ballad. . . . They Are The Gypsy Children Of Song, Born Under Green Hedgerows In The Leafy Lanes And Bypaths Of Literature,--in The Genial Summertime.

Decide Not Rashly. The Decision Made Can Never Be Recalled. The Gods Implore Not, Plead Not, Solicit Not; They Only Offer Choice And Occasion, Which Once Being Passed Return No More. Dost Thou Accept The Gift?

Whoever Benefits His Enemy With Straightforward Intention That Man's Enemies Will Soon Fold Their Hands In Devotion.

No Man Is So Poor As That. As Well Might The Mountain Streamlets Say They Have Nothing Worth Giving To The Sea, Because They Are Not Rivers. Give What You Have. To Some One, It May Be Better Than You Dare To Think.

Ah! What Would The World Be To Us If The Children Were No More? We Should Dread The Desert Behind Us Worse Than The Dark Before.

Well I Know The Secret Places, And The Nests In Hedge And Tree; At What Doors Are Friendly Faces, In What Hearts Are Thoughts Of Me.

Our Blossoms Of Passion, Gay And Luxuriant Flowers, Are Bright And Full Of Fragrance, But They Beguile Us And Lead Us Astray, And Their Odor Is Deadly.

If The Mind, That Rules The Body, Ever So Far Forgets Itself As To Trample On Its Slave, The Slave Is Never Generous Enough To Forgive The Injury, But Will Rise And Smite The Oppressor.

I Saw The Long Line Of The Vacant Shore, The Sea-weed And The Shells Upon The Sand, And The Brown Rocks Left Bare On Every Hand, As If The Ebbing Tide Would Flow No More.

More And More Do I Feel, As I Advance In Life, How Little We Really Know Of Each Other. Friendship Seems To Me Like The Touch Of Musical-glasses--it Is Only Contact; But The Glasses Themselves, And Their Contents, Remain Quite Distinct And Unmingled.

It Is Autumn; Not Without But Within Me Is The Cold. Youth And Spring Are All About; It Is I That Have Grown Old.

For The Structure That We Raise, Time Is With Materials Filled; Our To-days And Yesterdays Are The Blocks With Which We Build.

The Moon Is Hidden Behind A Cloud... On The Leaves Is A Sound Of Falling Rain... No Other Sounds Than These I Hear; The Hour Of Midnight Must Be Near... So Many Ghosts, And Forms Of Fright, Have Started From Their Graves To-night, They Have Driven Sleep From Mine Eyes Away: I Will Go Down To The Chapel And Pray.

The Natural Alone Is Permanent. Fantastic Idols May Be Worshipped For A While; But At Length They Are Overturned By The Continual And Silent Progress Of Truth, As The Grim Statues Of Copan Have Been Pushed From Their Pedestals By The Growth Of Forest-trees, Whose Seeds Were Sown By The Wind In The Ruined Walls.

The Heart, Like The Mind, Has A Memory. And In It Are Kept The Most Precious Keepsakes.

Bell, Thou Soundest Merrily, When The Bridal Party To The Church Doth Hie! Bell, Thou Soundest Solemnly, When, On Sabbath Morning, Fields Deserted Lie!

The Happy Should Not Insist Too Much Upon Their Happiness In The Presence Of The Unhappy.

How Absolute And Omnipotent Is The Silence Of Night! And Yet The Stillness Seems Almost Audible! From All The Measureless Depths Of Air Around Us Comes A Half-sound, A Half-whisper, As If We Could Hear The Crumbling And Falling Away Of Earth And All Created Things, In The Great Miracle Of Nature, Decay And Reproduction, Ever Beginning, Never Ending,--the Gradual Lapse And Running Of The Sand In The Great Hour-glass Of Time.

O Beautiful, Awful Summer Day, What Hast Thou Given, What Taken Away?

All Was Ended Now, The Hope, And The Fear And The Sorrow, All The Aching Of The Heart, The Restless, Unsatisfied Longing, All The Dull, Deep Pain, And Constant Anguish Of Patience!

Oh, How Short Are The Days! How Soon The Night Overtakes Us!

They, The Holy Ones And Weakly, Who The Cross Of Suffering Bore, Folded Their Pale Hands So Meekly, Spake With Us On Earth No More!

Make Not Thyself The Judge Of Any Man.

Method Is More Important Than Strength, When You Wish To Control Your Enemies. By Dropping Golden Beads Near A Snake, A Crow Once Managed To Have A Passer-by Kill The Snake For The Beads.

Perhaps The Chief Cause Which Has Retarded The Progress Of Poetry In America, Is The Want Of That Exclusive Cultivation, Which So Noble A Branch Of Literature Would Seem To Require. Few Here Think Of Relying Upon The Exertion Of Poetic Talent For A Livelihood, And Of Making Literature The Profession Of Life. The Bar Or The Pulpit Claims The Greater Part Of The Scholar's Existence, And Poetry Is Made Its Pastime.

The Morning Pouring Everywhere, Its Golden Glory On The Air.

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George Berkeley

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