Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere

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Oh, what a glory doth this world put on, for him who with a fervent heart goes forth under the bright and glorious sky, and looks on duties well performed, and days well spent.

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Our hearts are lamps for ever burning.

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They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

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Fame grows like a tree if it have the principle of growth in it; the accumulated dews of ages freshen its leaves.

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

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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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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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Well I know the secret places, And the nests in hedge and tree; At what doors are friendly faces, In what hearts are thoughts of me.

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The everyday cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time, giving its pendulum a true vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move the clock stands still.

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The mind of the scholar, if he would leave it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds.

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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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Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater To raise the dead to life than to create Phantoms that seem to live.

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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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There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.

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The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.

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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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In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

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Every man is in some sort a failure to himself. No one ever reaches the heights to which he aspires.

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I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where.

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