Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.

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The secret anniversaries of the heart.

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

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We waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into potions which, after all, do not immortalize, but only intoxicate.

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White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.

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Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.

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The nearer the dawn the darker the night.

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My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea

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A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

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For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom.

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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.

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I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it.

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When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

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Fortune comes well to all that comes not late.

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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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My designs and labors and aspirations are my only friends.

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Gone are the birds that were our summer guests.

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Let us then, be up and doing.

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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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There are two angels that attend unseen Each one of us, and in great books record Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down The good ones, after every action closes His volume, and ascends with it to God. The other keeps his dreadful day-book open Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing, The record of the action fades away, And leaves a line of white across the page. Now if my act be good, as I believe it, It cannot be recalled. It is already Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished. The rest is yours.

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