Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape; Trinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.

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All things come round to him who will but wait.

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Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, let us be merciful as well as just

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The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable. The elements have no forbearance. The fire burns, the water drowns, the air consumes, the earth buries. And perhaps it would be well for our race if the punishment of crimes against the Laws of Man were as inevitable as the punishment of crimes against the Laws of Nature -were Man as unerring in his judgments as Nature.

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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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Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.

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For next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one.

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There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

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Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

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Nothing that is can pause or stay.

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These stars of earth, these golden flowers.

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Out of the shadows of night The world rolls into light.

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Winter giveth the fields, and the trees so old, their beards of icicles and snow.

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We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.

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The day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!

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The rapture of pursuing is the prize the vanquished gain.

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Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, Having naught else but Hope.

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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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For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.

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Perhaps the greatest lesson which the lives of literary men teach us is told in a single word* Wait!

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