Haniel Clark Long was an American poet, novelist, publisher and academic. He is best known for his novella, Interlinear to Cabeza de Vaca (1936), a fictionalized account of the true story of a Spanish conquistador in 16th century North America.
Life and career
Born to Methodist missionaries Samuel P. and May Clark in what is now Myanmar (then known as Rangoon, Burma), Haniel Long was taken to Pittsburgh at the age of three with his family. Educated at Phillips Exeter Academy and Harvard, Long started a career as a reporter for the New York Globe but returned to Pittsburgh to teach at the Carnegie Institute of Technology (now Carnegie Mellon). He was promoted to head the... more »
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Haniel Long Poems
I take what never can be taken, Touch what cannot be; I wake what never could awaken, But for me.
Dead Men Tell No Tales
They say that dead men tell no tales! Except of barges with red sails And sailors mad for nightingales;
There will be butterflies, There will be summer skies And flowers upthrust, When all that Caesar bids,
Daphnis and Chloe
You found it difficult to woo— so do we who follow you. Everyone would like to mate; Everyone has had to wait.
Quotationsmore quotations »
''And who is any of us, that without starvation he can go through the kingdoms of starvation?''Haniel Long (1888-1956), U.S. author, poet, journalist. Interlinear to Cabeza de Vaca, p. 50 (1936, repr. 1987).
''Our deeds disguise us. People need endless time to try on their deeds, until each knows the proper deeds for him to do. But every day, every hour, rushes by. There is no time.''Haniel Long (1888-1956), U.S. author, poet, journalist. Malinche, pp. 72-73 (1939, repr. 1987).
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
I take what never can be taken,
Touch what cannot be;
I wake what never could awaken,
But for me.
I go where only winds are going,
Kiss what fades away;
I know a thing too strange for knowing,
I, the clay.