Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Archives

Footsteps of Angels

When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the…

What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist. Tell me not, in…

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;…

“I wrote this poem on the 3d of October, 1837, to send with a bouquet…

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare,…

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never…

Whene’er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene’er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts, in…

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw…