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American poet and scholar
(1807 - 1882)
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Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
  One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
    When he call'd the flowers, so blue and golden,
      Stars that on earth's firmament do shine.
      - Flowers (st. 1) [Daisies : Flowers]

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,
  Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
    Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
      Buds that open only to decay.
      - Flowers (st. 6) [Flowers]

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!
      - Footsteps of Angels (st. 5) [Suffering]

The heart hath its own memory, like the mind,
  And in it are enshrined
    The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought
      The giver's loving thought.
      - From My Arm-Chair (st. 12) [Memory]

Let one unceasing, earnest prayer
  Be, too, for light,--for strength to bear
    Our portion of the weight of care,
      That crushes into dumb despair
        One half the human race.
      - Goblet of Life (st. 10) [Prayer]

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
  The burial-ground God's Acre. It is just.
      - God's Acre [Graves]

This is the field and Acre of our God,
  This is the place where human harvests grow!
      - God's Acre [Graves]

When Christ ascended
  Triumphantly from star to star
    He left the gates of Heaven ajar.
      - Golden Legend (pt. II) [Heaven]

Well has the name of Pontifex been given
  Unto the Church's head, as the chief builder
    And architect of the invisible bridge
      That leads from earth to heaven.
      - Golden Legend (V) [Churches]

After a day of cloud and wind and rain
  Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again,
    And touching all the darksome woods with light,
      Smiles on the fields until they laugh and sing,
        Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring,
          Drops down into the night.
      - Hanging of the Crane (pt. VII) [Sunset]

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
        Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
          And harvest-like fields, its mystic splendor rests.
      - Harvest Moon [Moon]

And the great elms o'erhead
  Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms,
    Shot through with golden thread.
      - Hawthorne (st. 2) [Elm]

The lovely town was white with apple-blooms,
  And the great elms o'erhead
    Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms,
      Shot through with golden thread.
      - Hawthorne (st. 2) [Spring]

The surest pledge of a deathless name
  Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.
      - Herons of Elmwood (st. 9) [Thought]

And the fireflies, Wah-wah-taysee,
  Waved their torches to mislead him.
      - Hiawatha [Fireflies]

Every human heart is human.
      - Hiawatha (introduction, l. 91) [Humanity]

He the sweetest of all singers.
      - Hiawatha (pt. VI, l. 21) [Singing]

Rule by patience, Laughing Water!
      - Hiawatha (pt. X, Hiawatha's Wooing)

Love is sunshine, hate is shadow,
  Life is checkered shade and sunshine.
      - Hiawatha
         (pt. X, Hiawatha's Wooing, l. 265) [Life]

Feet that run on willing errands!
      - Hiawatha (pt. X, Hiawatha's Wooing, l. 33)

As unto the bow the cord is,
  So unto the man is woman;
    Though she bends him she obeys him,
      Though she draws him, yet she follows,
        Useless each without the other!
      - Hiawatha (pt. X, l. 1) [Matrimony]

Sang in tones of deep emotion
  Songs of love and songs of longing.
      - Hiawatha (pt. XI, l. 136) [Singing]

Buried was the bloody hatchet;
  Buried was the dreadful war-club;
    Buried were all warlike weapons,
      And the war-cry was forgotten.
        Then was peace among the nations.
      - Hiawatha (pt. XIII, l. 7) [Peace]

He is dead, the sweet musician!
  . . . .
    He has moved a little nearer
      To the Master of all music.
      - Hiawatha (pt. XV, l. 56) [Music]

Very hot and still the air was,
  Very smooth the gliding river,
    Motionless the sleeping shadows.
      - Hiawatha (pt. XVIII, l. 54) [Summer]

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