Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes
A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books.
It takes less time to do a thing right, than it does to explain why you did it wrong.
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.
Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.
Perseverance is a great element of success. If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody.
'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.
If a woman shows too often the Medusa's head, she must not be astonished if her lover is turned into stone.
If we love one another, nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen.
We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
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.
Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
Winter giveth the fields, and the trees so old, their beards of icicles and snow.
Nature paints not; In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven; With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds; And flying vapors.
He had mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic mittens made of deer-skin; When upon his hands he wore them, He could smite the rocks asunder, He could grind them into powder.
Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.
Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.
The Nile, forever new and old, Among the living and the dead, Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled.
My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.
The heart, like the mind, has a memory. And in it are kept the most precious keepsakes.
Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.
Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.
Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay.
Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start.
The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.
The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine; afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness, the taste and stain from the lees of the vat.
Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest.
Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.
Look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back again. Wisely improve the present, it is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.
Simplicity in character, in manners, in style; in all things the supreme excellence is simplicity.
The great tragedy of the average man is that he goes to his grave with his music still in him.
Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung.
Live up to the best that is in you: Live noble lives, as you all may, in whatever condition you may find yourselves.
