Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom.

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The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.

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Thus, seamed with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal! Thus the tale ended.

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Men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive in what they do than the approbation of men, which is fame, namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself.

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A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society.

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And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.

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If we love one another, nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen.

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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 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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For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.

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The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

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Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

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That was the first sound in the song of love! Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate. We hear The voice prophetic, and are not alone.

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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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To be strong is to be happy!

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It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

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More and more do I feel, as I advance in life, how little we really know of each other. Friendship seems to me like the touch of musical-glasses--it is only contact; but the glasses themselves, and their contents, remain quite distinct and unmingled.

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The natural alone is permanent.

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Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.

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Defeat may be victory in disguise.

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