Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

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Time is the life of the soul.

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Ne speaketh not; and yet there lies a conversation in his eyes.

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A life that is worth writing at all is worth writing minutely.

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Perhaps there lives some dreamy boy, untaught In schools, some graduate of the field or street, Who shall become a master of art, An admiral sailing the high seas of thought Fearless and first, and steering with his fleet For lands not yet laid down in any chart.

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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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Hope has as many lives as a cat or a king.

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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.

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Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.

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

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There is no light in earth or heaven but the cold light of stars; and the first watch of night is given to the red planet Mars.

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What is time? The shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand, day and night, summer and winter, months, years, centuries-these are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of Time, not Time itself. Time is the Life of the Soul.

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Stay, stay at home, my heart and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest.

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Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

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Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.

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Ah, how skillful grows the hand That obeyeth Love's command! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain, And he who followeth Love's behest Far excelleth all the rest!

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Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet; This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey. Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert, Such in the soul of man is faith.

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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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I do not love thee less for what is done, And cannot be undone. Thy very weakness Hath brought thee nearer to me, and henceforth My love will have a sense of pity in it, Making it less a worship than before.

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Even cities have their graves!

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