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

Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.

Children (1858)

Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,—
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,—
“Forever — never!
Never — forever!”

The Old Clock on the Stairs (1845)

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupation,
That is known as the Children’s Hour.

The Children's Hour (1860)

If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.

Driftwood (1857)

No man is so poor as to have nothing worth giving. Give what you have. To someone it may be better than you dare to think.

Kavanagh: A Tale (1849)