Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

My designs and labors and aspirations are my only friends.

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The everyday cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time, giving its pendulum a true vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move the clock stands still.

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Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.

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And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

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Ambition is so powerful a passion in the human breast, that however high we reach we are never satisfied.

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Difficulty on the way to victory is opportunity for God to work

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The Wreck of the Hesperus But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.

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The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveler to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

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And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

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Men are four; He who knows and knows not that he knows. He is asleep; wake him. He who knows not and knows not that he knows not. He is a fool; shun him. He who knows not and knows that he knows not. He is a child; teach him. He who knows and knows that he knows. He is a king; follow him. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.

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Round about what is, lies a whole mysterious world of might be, a psychological romance of possibilities and things that do not happen.

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All was ended now, the hope, and the fear and the sorrow, All the aching of the heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!

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There is no death! What seems so is transition; this life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian, whose portal we call Death.

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How like they are to human things!

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Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

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

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A noble type of good. Heroic womanhood.

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Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail. And crying havoc on the slug and snail.

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O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! O drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again.

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That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.

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