More info on our symposium and registration here: genealogyheadquarters.com/education/
#genealogy #germany #history
More info on our symposium and registration here: genealogyheadquarters.com/education/
#genealogy #germany #history
Our eyes to heaven, if we are blind,
We see but what we have the gift
Of seeing; what we bring we find.
—"Moonlight," by our beloved Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Our eyes to heaven, if we are blind,
We see but what we have the gift
Of seeing; what we bring we find.
—"Moonlight," by our beloved Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The common life of every day;
Only the spirit glorifies
With its own tints the sober gray.
The common life of every day;
Only the spirit glorifies
With its own tints the sober gray.
Is clothed with a diviner air;
White marble paves the silent street
And glimmers in the empty square.
Is clothed with a diviner air;
White marble paves the silent street
And glimmers in the empty square.
The elm-trees drop their curtains down;
By palace, park, and colonnade
I walk as in a foreign town.
The elm-trees drop their curtains down;
By palace, park, and colonnade
I walk as in a foreign town.
In all the splendor of her light,
She walks the terraces of cloud,
Supreme as Empress of the Night.
I look, but recognize no more
Objects familiar to my view;
The very pathway to my door
Is an enchanted avenue.
In all the splendor of her light,
She walks the terraces of cloud,
Supreme as Empress of the Night.
I look, but recognize no more
Objects familiar to my view;
The very pathway to my door
Is an enchanted avenue.
Ascends some ruin's haunted stair,
So glides the moon along the damp
Mysterious chambers of the air.
Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed,
As if this phantom, full of pain,
Were by the crumbling walls concealed,
And at the windows seen again.
Ascends some ruin's haunted stair,
So glides the moon along the damp
Mysterious chambers of the air.
Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed,
As if this phantom, full of pain,
Were by the crumbling walls concealed,
And at the windows seen again.
Is a Song of the Vine,
To be sung by the glowing embers
Of wayside inns,
When the rain begins
To darken the drear Novembers.
Is a Song of the Vine,
To be sung by the glowing embers
Of wayside inns,
When the rain begins
To darken the drear Novembers.