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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O thou sculptor, painter, poet! Take this lesson to thy heart: That is best which lieth nearest; Shape from that thy work of art.

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By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven.

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Ah, how skillful grows the hand That obeyeth Love's command! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain, And he who followeth Love's behest Far excelleth all the rest!

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And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

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Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

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Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!

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Books are sepulchres of thought.

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The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.

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This is the place. Stand still, my steed,- Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.

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A man must be of a very quiet and happy nature, who can long endure the country; and, moreover, very well contented with his own insignificant person.

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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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Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!

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At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast.

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It is folly to pretend that one ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar. There are faces I can never look upon without emotion, there are names I can never hear spoken without almost starting.

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The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark

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There rises the moon, broad and tranquil, through the branches of a walnut tree on a hill opposite. I apostrophize it in the words of Faust; "O gentle moon, that lookest for the last time upon my agonies!" --or something to that effect.

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Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o’er our fears, are all with thee – are all with thee!

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Perhaps the chief cause which has retarded the progress of poetry in America, is the want of that exclusive cultivation, which so noble a branch of literature would seem to require. Few here think of relying upon the exertion of poetic talent for a livelihood, and of making literature the profession of life. The bar or the pulpit claims the greater part of the scholar's existence, and poetry is made its pastime.

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I see, but cannot reach, the height That lies forever in the light.

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