Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start.

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Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, a shadow on those features fair and thin. And softly, from the hushed and darkened room, two angels issued, where but one went in.

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We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps.

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As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.

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The secret anniversaries of the heart.

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Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.

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Let us labor for an inward stillness-- An inward stillness and an inward healing. That perfect silence where the lips and heart Are still, and we no longer entertain Our own imperfect thoughts and vain opinions, But God alone speaks to us and we wait In singleness of heart that we may know His will, and in the silence of our spirits, That we may do His will and do that only

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Oh, how beautiful is the summer night, which is not night, but a sunless, yet unclouded, day, descending upon earth with dews and shadows and refreshing coolness! How beautiful the long mild twilight, which, like a silver clasp, unites today with yesterday!

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These stars of earth, these golden flowers.

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God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain over into this wilderness.

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Many readers judge of the power of a book by the shock it gives their feelings.

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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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The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.

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Nothing with God can be accidental.

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Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

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I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.

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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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The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark

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The poor too often turn away unheard, From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven.

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Love is the root of creation; God's essence; worlds without number Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only. Only to love and to be loved again.

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