Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

,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

,A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks ,A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes ,A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks .And towers that touch imaginary skies 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear  ,Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere  ;On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five  Hardly a man is now alive 

;I am poor and old and blind The sun burns me, and the wind Blows through the city gate And covers me with dust

As a pale phantom with a lamp ,Ascends some ruin’s haunted stair So glides the moon along the damp .Mysterious chambers of the air

!Come to me, O ye children ,For I hear you at your play And the questions that perplexed me .Have vanished quite away

Ojibwa —,The owl    Au The owl    Au

,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

River! That in silence windest ,Through the meadows, bright and free Till at length thy rest thou findest !In the bosom of the sea

,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

After so long an absence  :At last we meet again  ,Does the meeting give us pleasure  –?Or does it give us pain 

Often I think of the beautiful town ;That is seated by the sea Often in thought go up and down ,The pleasant streets of that dear old town

O sweet illusions of song ,That tempt me everywhere In the lonely fields, and the throng !Of the crowded thoroughfare

,In Ocean’s wide domains ,Half buried in the sands ,Lie skeletons in chains .With shackled feet and hands

,This is the place. Stand still, my steed ,Let me review the scene And summon from the shadowy Past .The forms that once have been

;The night is come, but not too soon ,And sinking silently All silently, the little moon .Drops down behind the sky

,When the summer harvest was gathered in ,And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin ,And the ploughshare was in its furrow left ,Where the stubble land had been lately cleft

: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

;The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ;It rains, and the wind is never weary ,The vine still clings to the mouldering wall ,But at every gust the dead leaves fall

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes   And roofs of villages, on woodland crests   And their aerial neighborhoods of nests   Deserted, on the curtained window-panes

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp ;The hunted Negro lay ,He saw the fire of the midnight camp And heard at times a horse’s tramp

,In broad daylight, and at noon Yesterday I saw the moon ,Sailing high, but faint and white .As a school-boy’s paper kite

,I shot an arrow into the air ;It fell to earth, I knew not where For, so swiftly it flew, the sight .Could not follow it in its flight

,As the birds come in the Spring ;We know not from where As the stars come at evening ;From depths of the air 

,The shades of night were falling fast  As through an Alpine village passed  ,A youth, who bore, ‘mid snow and ice  ,A banner with the strange device 

,The day is ending ;The night is descending ,The marsh is frozen .The river dead 

.No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano Spanish Proverb—

The day is done, and the darkness    ,Falls from the wings of Night As a feather is wafted downward    .From an eagle in his flight

,All are architects of Fate ;Working in these walls of Time ,Some with massive deeds and great .Some with ornaments of rhyme

;Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest ,Home-keeping hearts are happiest For those that wander they know not where ;Are full of trouble and full of care