Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Fair words gladden so many a heart.

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Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead.

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Many readers judge of the power of a book by the shock it gives their feelings.

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I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.

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The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.

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Whatever poet, orator, or sage may say of it, old age is still old age.

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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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The twilight that surrounds the border-land of old romance.

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Think not because no man sees, such things will remain unseen.

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Your education begins where what is called your education is over. Your fate is but the common lot of all.

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As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.

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So disasters come not singly; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish.

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And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

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Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

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

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Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.

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These stars of earth, these golden flowers.

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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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I saw the long line of the vacant shore, The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, As if the ebbing tide would flow no more.

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