Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is ending,
When the warm sun, that brings
Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
It is autumn; not without
Come to me, O ye children!
"I heard the bells on Christmas Day
In broad daylight, and at noon,
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
When the hours of Day are numbered,
Downward through the evening twilight,
"As unto the bow the cord is,
The holiest of all holidays are those
Should you ask me,
When I compare
As a pale phantom with a lamp
Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis,
Often I think of the beautiful town
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
How beautiful is the rain!
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
"Build me straight, O worthy Master!
Between the dark and the daylight,
Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,
Filled is Life's goblet to the brim;
How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves,
Listen my children and you shall hear
The night is come, but not too soon;
On the Mountains of the Prairie,
January
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
In that desolate land and lone,
Can it be the sun descending
X. Hiawatha's Wooing
The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
Dear child! how radiant on thy mother's knee,
When winter winds are piercing chill,