Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Our hearts are lamps for ever burning.

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An angel visited the green earth, and took a flower away.

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O ye dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, With drops of anguish falling fast and red From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill?

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That tree is very old, but I never saw prettier blossoms on it than it now bears. That tree grows new wood each year. Like that apple tree, I try to grow a new little wood each year.

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I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where.

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Even cities have their graves!

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Learn to labour and to wait.

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Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep, All things within its bosom sleep! A single step, and all is o'er, A plunge, a bubble, and no more.

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Dost thou know what a hero is? Why, a hero is as much as one should say, a hero.

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Whatever hath been written shall remain, Nor be erased nor written o'er again; The unwritten only still belongs to thee: Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be.

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As the heart is, so is love to the heart. It partakes of its strength or weakness, its health or disease.

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Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead.

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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.

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As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.

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When thou are not pleased, beloved, Then my heart is sad and darkened, As the shining river darkens When the clouds drop shadows on it! When thou smilest, my beloved, Then my troubled heart is brightened, As in sunshine gleam the ripples That the cold wind makes in rivers.

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How like they are to human things!

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The twilight that surrounds the border-land of old romance.

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In old age our bodies are worn-out instruments, on which the soul tries in vain to play the melodies of youth. But because the instrument has lost its strings, or is out of tune, it does not follow that the musician has lost his skill.

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Youth wrenches the sceptre from old age, and sets the crown on its own head before it is entitled to it.

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Art is the child of Nature; yes, Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her attitude, All her majestic loveliness Chastened and softened and subdued Into a more attractive grace, And with a human sense imbued. He is the greatest artist, then, Whether of pencil or of pen, Who follows Nature.

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