Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes
God's voice was not in the earthquake, Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes.
White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.
There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.
To charm, to strengthen, and to teach: these are the three great chords of might.
All your strength in is your union. All your danger is in discord. Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together.
Does not all the blood within me Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, As the springs to meet the sunshine.
Is this is a dream? O, if it be a dream, Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!
Ah, how skillful grows the hand That obeyeth Love's command! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain, And he who followeth Love's behest Far excelleth all the rest!
It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and drenched by the rain of life.
The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame.
Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat the stronger.
A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thought's of youth are long, long thoughhts
The market-place, the eager love of gain, Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain!
Every man is in some sort a failure to himself. No one ever reaches the heights to which he aspires.
So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.
I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.
Buried was the bloody hatchet; Buried was the dreadful war-club; Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. Then was peace among the nations.
We often excuse our own want of philanthropy by giving the name of fanaticism to the more ardent zeal of others.
A great sorrow, like a mariner's quadrant, brings the sun at noon down to the horizon, and we learn where we are on the sea of life.
How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow Into the arctic regions of our lives, Where little else than life itself survives.
God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain over into this wilderness.
The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.
Trouble is the next best thing to enjoyment; there is no fate in the world so horrible as to have no share in either its joys or sorrows.
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind in never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
I am never indifferent, and never pretend to be, to what people say or think of my books. They are my children, and I like to have them liked.
Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn; Something with passion clasp, or perish And in itself to ashes burn.
I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.
Autumn arrives like a warrior with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.
The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.
Now to rivulets from the mountains Point the rods of fortune-tellers; Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars.
I am weary of your quarrels, Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your wranglings and dissensions
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe!
O lovely eyes of azure, Clear as the waters of a brook that run Limpid and laughing in the summer sun!
