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Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Birds of Passage


Here lies the gentle humorist, who died
  In the bright Indian Summer of his fame!
  A simple stone, with but a date and name,
  Marks his secluded resting-place beside
The river that he loved and glorified.
  Here in the autumn of his days he came,
  But the dry leaves of life were all aflame
  With tints that brightened and were multiplied.
How sweet a life was his; how sweet a  death!
  Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours,
  Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer;
Dying, to leave a memory like the breath
  Of summers full of sunshine and of showers,
  A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.