Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.

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Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.

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The heart, like the mind, has a memory. And in it are kept the most precious keepsakes.

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The world loves a spice of wickedness.

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Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.

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A noble type of good. Heroic womanhood.

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Stay, stay at home, my heart and rest; Home-keeping hearts are the happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care; To stay at home is best.

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The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers.

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Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep, All things within its bosom sleep! A single step, and all is o'er, A plunge, a bubble, and no more.

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You would attain to the divine perfection.

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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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In old age our bodies are worn-out instruments, on which the soul tries in vain to play the melodies of youth. But because the instrument has lost its strings, or is out of tune, it does not follow that the musician has lost his skill.

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Trust no future, however pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act -- act in the living Present! Heart within and God overhead.

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At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, That nothing with God can be accidental.

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It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.

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Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us.

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Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.

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Art is the child of Nature; yes, Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her attitude, All her majestic loveliness Chastened and softened and subdued Into a more attractive grace, And with a human sense imbued. He is the greatest artist, then, Whether of pencil or of pen, Who follows Nature.

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The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.

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Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!

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