Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The warriors that fought for their country, and bled, Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed; No stone tells the place where their ashes repose, Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. They died in their glory, surrounded by fame, And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim; They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.

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Every human heart is human.

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In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

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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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The world loves a spice of wickedness.

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What seems to us but dim funeral tapers may be heaven's distant lamps.

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An enlightened mind is not hoodwinked; it is not shut up in a gloomy prison till it thinks the walls of its dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach of its own chain the outer verge of intelligence.

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Tomorrow is the mysterious, unknown guest.

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The life of woman is full of woe, Toiling on and on and on, With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, The secret longings that arise, Which this world never satisfies! Some more, some less, but of the whole Not one quite happy, no, not one!

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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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No action, whether foul or fair, Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere A record, written by fingers ghostly, As a blessing or a curse, and mostly In the greater weakness or greater strength Of the acts which follow it.

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Love is a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than animate faith and love, as flowers are the animate springtide.

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

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Many people do not allow their principles to take root, but pull them up every now and then, as children do the flowers they have planted, to see if they are growing.

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How like they are to human things!

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Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.

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The sentence of the first murderer was pronounced by the Supreme Judge of the universe. Was it death? No, it was life. 'A fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth'; and 'Whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold.

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A young critic is like a boy with a gun; he fires at every living thing he sees. He thinks only of his own skill, not of the pain he is giving.

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And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

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Often times we call a man [or woman] cold when he [or she] is only sad.

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