Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

1807-1882 / Male / American
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A FragmentAwake! arise! the hour is late! / Angels are knocking at thy door! / They are in haste and cannot wait,
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AftermathCompelled by calamity's magnet / They loiter and stare as if the house / Burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought
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Afternoon In FebruaryThe day is ending, / The night is descending; / The marsh is frozen,
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An April DayWhen the warm sun, that brings / Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, / ’Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
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Autumn WithinIt is autumn; not without / But within me is the cold. / Youth and spring are all about;
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Birds Of PassageBlack shadows fall / From the lindens tall, / That lift aloft their massive wall
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ChangedFrom the outskirts of the town, / Where of old the mile-stone stood, / Now a stranger, looking down
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ChaucerAn old man in a lodge within a park; / The chamber walls depicted all around / With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,
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Christmas BellsI heard the bells on Christmas Day / Their old, familiar carols play, / And wild and sweet
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CurfewI / Solemnly, mournfully, / Dealing its dole,
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