Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

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God's voice was not in the earthquake, Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes.

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Tomorrow is the mysterious, unknown guest.

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Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, Having naught else but Hope.

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Fair words gladden so many a heart.

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The heaven of poetry and romance still lies around us and within us.

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I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.

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The market-place, the eager love of gain, Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain!

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There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.

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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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Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall

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Make not thyself the judge of any man.

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There's not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall!

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The nimble lie Is like the second-hand upon a clock; We see it fly; while the hour-hand of truth Seems to stand still, and yet it moves unseen, And wins, at last, for the clock will not strike Till it has reached the goal.

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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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Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles below Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lighted snow.

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Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.

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Ambition is so powerful a passion in the human breast, that however high we reach we are never satisfied.

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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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From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.

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