Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes
There is no flock, however watched and tended, but one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside howsoe'er defended, but has one vacant chair.
A spirit of criticism, if indulged in, leads to a censoriousness of disposition that is destructive of all nobler feeling. The man who lives to find faults has a miserable mission.
Youth wrenches the sceptre from old age, and sets the crown on its own head before it is entitled to it.
Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun.
For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.
But the nearer the dawn the darker the night, And by going wrong all things come right. Things have been mended that were worse, and the the worse, the nearer they are to mend.
O, though oft oppressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died!
Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls, The burial-ground God's-Acre.
Each new epoch in life seems an encounter. There is a tussle and a cloud of dust, and we come out of it triumphant or crest-fallen, according as we have borne ourselves.
The sun is set; and in his latest beams Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, The falling mantle of the Prophet seems.
Let him not boast who puts his armor on as he who puts it off, the battle done.
In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere
How can I tell the signals and the signs By which one heart another heart divines? How can I tell the many thousand ways By which it keeps the secret it betrays?
Prayer is innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant 'twist the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.
For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter Of the Eternal's language; - on earth it is called Forgiveness!
Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail. And crying havoc on the slug and snail.
Mercy more becomes a magistrate than the vindictive wrath which men call justice.
Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, Having naught else but Hope.
Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!
Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise.
There's not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall!
How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth and one hand.
They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!
But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust.
Sail on ship of state, sail on, I union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, with all its hopes of future years, is hanging on thy fate!
And the bright faces of my young companions Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveler to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
Bell, thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie! Bell, thou soundest solemnly, When, on Sabbath morning, Fields deserted lie!