Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

People of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when a little in love.

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What shall I say to you? What can I say Better than silence is?

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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

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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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The happy should not insist too much upon their happiness in the presence of the unhappy.

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Listen my children and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere

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O little souls! as pure as white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine!

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I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.

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My designs and labors and aspirations are my only friends.

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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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For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

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

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An enlightened mind is not hoodwinked; it is not shut up in a gloomy prison till it thinks the walls of its dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach of its own chain the outer verge of intelligence.

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Let us then, be up and doing.

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Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The foliage of the valleys and the heights. Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights; The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; I am the mother of all dear delights; I am the fairest daughter of the year.

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At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast.

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Buried was the bloody hatchet; Buried was the dreadful war-club; Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. Then was peace among the nations.

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Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.

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Some poems are like the Centaurs--a mingling of man and beast, and begotten of Ixion on a cloud.

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And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox.

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