Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

You would attain to the divine perfection.

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A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society.

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Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.

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It is folly to pretend that one ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar. There are faces I can never look upon without emotion, there are names I can never hear spoken without almost starting.

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How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams with its illusions, aspirations, dreams! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!

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O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on!

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Big words do not smite like war-clubs, Boastful breath is not a bow-string, Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, Deeds are better things than words are, Actions mightier than boastings.

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

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The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.

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A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.

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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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Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside.

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Whenever nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

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All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.

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The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.

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Softly the evening came /with the sunset/.

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I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love.

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Every man is in some sort a failure to himself. No one ever reaches the heights to which he aspires.

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I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

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Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

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