Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

A boy's will is the wind's will.

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The air of summer was sweeter than wine.

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In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face the face of one long dead Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.

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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

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It is foolish to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar.

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Sang in tones of deep emotion Songs of love and songs of longing.

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This will be a great day in our history; the date of a New Revolution - quite as much needed as the old one. Even now as I write they are leading old John Brown to execution in Virginia for attempting to rescue slaves! This is sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind which will come soon!

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The rapture of pursuing is the prize the vanquished gain.

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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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Is this is a dream? O, if it be a dream, Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!

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These stars of earth, these golden flowers.

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The day is dark and cold and dreary; it rains, and the wind is never weary.

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As the heart is, so is love to the heart. It partakes of its strength or weakness, its health or disease.

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O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?

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Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.

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No one is so accursed by fate, no one so utterly desolate, but some heart though unknown responds unto his own.

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See yonder fire! It is the moon slow rising o'er the eastern hill. It glimmers on the forest tips, and through the dewy foliage drips In little rivulets of light, and makes the heart in love with night.

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

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He had mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic mittens made of deer-skin; When upon his hands he wore them, He could smite the rocks asunder, He could grind them into powder.

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Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

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