Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Love gives itself; it is not bought.

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The secret anniversaries of the heart.

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I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.

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God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.

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Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn; Something with passion clasp, or perish And in itself to ashes burn.

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The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone. Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world seems but a dim reflection - itself a broader shadow. We look forward into the coming lonely night. The soul withdraws into itself. Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

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At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, That nothing with God can be accidental.

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Let us, then, be what we are; speak what we think; and in all things keep ourselves loyal to truth.

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The life of woman is full of woe, Toiling on and on and on, With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, The secret longings that arise, Which this world never satisfies! Some more, some less, but of the whole Not one quite happy, no, not one!

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Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.

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Let us then, be up and doing.

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Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

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And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, and silently steal away.

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It is foolish to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar.

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We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.

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Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape; Trinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.

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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.

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This song of mine Is a song of the vine To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. and For the richest and best Is the wind of the West That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room With a bension on the giver. and When you ask one friend to dine, Give hime your best wine! When you ask two, The second best will do.

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The history of the past is a mere puppet-show. A little man comes out and blows a little trumpet, and goes in again. You look for something new, and lo! another little man comes out, and blows another little trumpet, and goes in again. And it is all over.

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If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!

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