Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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

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Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

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The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do, well.

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How can I teach your children gentleness and mercy to the weak, and reverence for life, which in its nakedness and excess, is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, when by your laws, your actions and your speech, you contradict the very things I teach?

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Big words do not smite like war-clubs, Boastful breath is not a bow-string, Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, Deeds are better things than words are, Actions mightier than boastings.

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Time is the life of the soul.

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

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Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending.

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If the mind, that rules the body, ever so far forgets itself as to trample on its slave, the slave is never generous enough to forgive the injury, but will rise and smite the oppressor.

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This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

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All things are symbols.

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The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.

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I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

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

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Even cities have their graves!

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No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.

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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.

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O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?

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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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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?

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