Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The twilight is sad and cloudy, The wind blows wild and free, And like the wings of sea-birds Flash the white caps of the sea.

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To be left alone, and face to face with my own crime, had been just retribution.

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Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.

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There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.

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What is time? The shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand, day and night, summer and winter, months, years, centuries-these are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of Time, not Time itself. Time is the Life of the Soul.

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Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us.

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And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.

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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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And the bright faces of my young companions Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more.

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Then followed that beautiful season... Summer.... Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

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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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There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it.

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Authors have a greater right than any copyright, though it is generally unacknowledged or disregarded. They have a right to the reader's civility. There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it, and to these the author has a claim. Yet many people think that when they buy a book they buy with it the right to abuse the author.

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I saw the long line of the vacant shore, The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, As if the ebbing tide would flow no more.

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A handful of red sand from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought.

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A life that is worth writing at all is worth writing minutely.

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Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.

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A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

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For bells are the voice of the church; They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old.

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This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

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