Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

As Unto the bow the the cord is , So unto the man is woman; Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him , yet she follows: Useless each without the other.

The day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!

At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, That nothing with God can be accidental.

The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light.

Let us, then, be what we are; speak what we think; and in all things keep ourselves loyal to truth.

Into a world unknown,-the corner-stone of a nation!

Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great.

Gone are the birds that were our summer guests.

Wisely improve the Present. It is thine.

These stars of earth, these golden flowers.

Nothing with God can be accidental.

O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be!

I will be a man among men; and no longer a dreamer among shadows.

Let nothing disturb thee, Nothing affright thee; All things are passing; God never changeth; Patient endurance Attaineth to all things; Who God possesseth In nothing is wanting; Alone God sufficeth.

Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

The thoughts of Youth are long, long thoughts

Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath.

Life is the gift of God, and is divine.

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

In youth all doors open outward; in old age all open inward.

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

Learn to labour and to wait.

Listen my children and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere

And when she was good she was very very good. But when she was bad she was horrid.

Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.

Time, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry.

Think not because no man sees, such things will remain unseen.

Life like an empty dream flits by.

But the great Master said, "I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach".

No endeavour is in vain; Its reward is in the doing.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps.

The heaven of poetry and romance still lies around us and within us.

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river Linger to kiss thy feet! O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever The world more fair and sweet.

The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society.

But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again.

If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!

Big words do not smite like war-clubs, Boastful breath is not a bow-string, Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, Deeds are better things than words are, Actions mightier than boastings.

Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need.

There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.

Often times we call a man [or woman] cold when he [or she] is only sad.

The air of summer was sweeter than wine.

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

Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.

Oh, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us!

My own thoughts Are my companions.

Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.

And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox.