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

Music is the universal language of mankind — poetry their universal pastime and delight.

Outre-Mer

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

The Arrow and the Song (1845)

The grave itself is but a covered bridge,
Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!

The Golden Legend (1872)

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

The Reaper and the Flowers (1839)

The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.

The Ladder of St. Augustine (1858)