Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.

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That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.

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In what a forge and what a heat were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock; 'Tis of the wave and not the rock.

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Stars of earth, these golden flowers; emblems of our own great resurrection; emblems of the bright and better land.

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

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Love is the root of creation; God's essence; worlds without number Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only. Only to love and to be loved again.

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The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers.

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What heart has not acknowledged the influence of this hour, the sweet and soothing hour of twilight, the hour of love, the hour of adoration, the hour of rest, when we think of those we love only to regret that we have not loved them more dearly, when we remember our enemies only to forgive them.

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Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun.

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There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary.

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In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere

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Art is the child of Nature.

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How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and the heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!

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Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.

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O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! O drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again.

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The low desire, the base design That makes another's virtues less.

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Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

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The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service.

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The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.

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Thus, seamed with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal! Thus the tale ended.

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