Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

A solid man of Boston; A comfortable man with dividends, And the first salmon and the first green peas.

From labor there shall come forth rest.

The prayer of Ajax was for light.

It is the heart and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain.

I know not how it is, but during a voyage I collect books as a ship does barnacles.

Some poems are like the Centaurs--a mingling of man and beast, and begotten of Ixion on a cloud.

All things are symbols: the external shows Of Nature have their image in the mind , As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves.

History casts its shadow far into the land of song.

Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others.

The natural alone is permanent.

God is not dead; nor doth He sleep; ... The wrong shall fail, The right prevail, With peace on earth, good will to men.

Many readers judge of the power of a book by the shock it gives their feelings.

Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm For the country folk to be up and to arm.

In ourselves are triumph and defeat.

I saw the long line of the vacant shore, The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, As if the ebbing tide would flow no more.

And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest of all the arts.

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears.

Today is the blocks with which we build.

Defeat may be victory in disguise.

Let us then, be up and doing.

When you ask one friend to dine, Give him your best wine! When you ask two, The second best will do!

Dreams or illusions, call them what you will, they lift us from the commonplace of life to better things.

The story, from beginning to end, I found again in a heart of a friend.

We are all architects of faith, ever living in these walls of time.

Torrent of light and river of air, Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen, Like gold and silver sands in some ravine Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!

A handful of red sand from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.

Round about what is, lies a whole mysterious world of might be, a psychological romance of possibilities and things that do not happen.

Take this sorrow to thy heart and make it part of thee, and it shall nourish thee till thou art strong again.

O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried!

If you once understand an author's character, the comprehension of his writings becomes easy.

Do not delay, Do not delay: the golden moments fly!

For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not in anger.

What child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, when spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails and the misty pennon of the east-wind nailed to the mast.

And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

The course of my long life hath reached at last in fragile bark over a tempestuous sea the common harbor, where must rendered be account for all the actions of the past.

What seems to us but dim funeral tapers may be heaven's distant lamps.

Every author has the whole past to contend with; all the centuries are upon him. He is compared with Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.

In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For oh, it is not always May!

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear and the sorrow, All the aching of the heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!

Think of your woods and orchards without birds! Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!

With useless endeavour Forever, forever, Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up the mountain!

Work is my recreation, The play of faculty; a delight like that Which a bird feels in flying, or a fish In darting through the water,--Nothing more.

No one is so accursed by fate, no one so utterly desolate, but some heart though unknown responds unto his own.