My Cathedral.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

LIKE two cathedral towers these stately pines
Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;
The arch beneath them is not built with stones,
Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,
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Woods In Winter.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorne blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.

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Sunrise On The Hills.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.


I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven’s wide arch

Was glorious with the sun’s returning march,

And woods were brightened, and soft gales

Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,

They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,

And, in their fading glory, shone

Like hosts in battle overthrown,


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The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

September 11, 1879.

THE tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

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