Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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

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Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!

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No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

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Would you learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers, comprehend its mystery!

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The soul never grows old.

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

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I hear the wind among the trees Playing the celestial symphonies; I see the branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument.

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Fortune comes well to all that comes not late.

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I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon, In the round-tower of my heart, And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in the dust away!

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The Devil hinders me. You know I say Just what I think, and nothing more nor less, And, when I pray, my heart is in my prayer. I cannot say one thing and mean another. If I can't pray, I will not make believe!

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The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain.

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Nothing that is can pause or stay; / The moon will wax, the moon will wane, / The mist and cloud will turn to rain, / The rain to mist and cloud again, / Tomorrow be today.

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For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.

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Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.

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Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay.

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The smoking flax before it burst to flame Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed.

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Art is long, and Time is fleeting.

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If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!

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Life is the gift of God, and is divine.

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Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

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