Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

A solid man of Boston; A comfortable man with dividends, And the first salmon and the first green peas.

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You would attain to the divine perfection.

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They who go Feel not the pain of parting; it is they Who stay behind that suffer.

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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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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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But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust.

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

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As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire. And formed the seven-chorded lyre.

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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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Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.

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The air of summer was sweeter than wine.

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Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

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Often times we call a man [or woman] cold when he [or she] is only sad.

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Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine.

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

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However things may seem, no evil thing is success and no good thing is failure.

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There is no light in earth or heaven but the cold light of stars; and the first watch of night is given to the red planet Mars.

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I know not how it is, but during a voyage I collect books as a ship does barnacles.

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The moon is hidden behind a cloud... On the leaves is a sound of falling rain... No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near... So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.

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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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