Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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

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Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

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All was ended now, the hope, and the fear and the sorrow, All the aching of the heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!

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How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow Into the arctic regions of our lives, Where little else than life itself survives.

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Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work rather that its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as a bad heart of Procreates turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.

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The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.

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Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole heaven within it.

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By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven.

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Art is the child of Nature; yes, Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her attitude, All her majestic loveliness Chastened and softened and subdued Into a more attractive grace, And with a human sense imbued. He is the greatest artist, then, Whether of pencil or of pen, Who follows Nature.

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Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

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The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal.

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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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Nothing that is can pause or stay; / The moon will wax, the moon will wane, / The mist and cloud will turn to rain, / The rain to mist and cloud again, / Tomorrow be today.

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Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, let us be merciful as well as just

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At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, That nothing with God can be accidental.

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Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.

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The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if newborn; There was nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet.

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But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.

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It is a beautiful trait in the lover's character, that they think no evil of the object loved.

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We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.

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