Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

The Golden Legend (1872)
tagged: death, time

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More from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Nothing useless is, or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.

The Builders (1849)

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

The Children's Hour (1860)

But the great Master said, “I see
No best in kind, but in degree;
I gave a various gift to each,
To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.

The Singers (1849)

Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and with a manly heart.

Hyperion (1839)

Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

Voices of the Night (1839)