HANNA'S WALK

The Spirit of Poetry by Longfellow

The Spirit of Poetry There is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where’er the gentle south-wind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast ushering star of morning comes O’er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace!  That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind.  And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air Their tops the green trees lift.  Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way…

Love Awoke One Winter’s Night …

When it is dark enough, you can see the stars. Charles A. Beard The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry’s cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple… Read More

The Arrow and the Song

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. I breathed a song into the air, It fell… Read More

The Summer Days

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. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Human beings are made… Read More

Woods In Winter

Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung. Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river’s gradual tide, Shrilly the… Read More