Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

See yonder fire! It is the moon slow rising o'er the eastern hill. It glimmers on the forest tips, and through the dewy foliage drips In little rivulets of light, and makes the heart in love with night.

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These stars of earth, these golden flowers.

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

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By the shores of Gitchee Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis, Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.

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The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

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I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

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The low desire, the base design That makes another's virtues less.

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The natural alone is permanent. Fantastic idols may be worshipped for a while; but at length they are overturned by the continual and silent progress of Truth, as the grim statues of Copan have been pushed from their pedestals by the growth of forest-trees, whose seeds were sown by the wind in the ruined walls.

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The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!

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Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing.

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I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.

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If we love one another, nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen.

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Torrent of light and river of air, Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen, Like gold and silver sands in some ravine Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!

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Art is long, and Time is fleeting.

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The strength of criticism lies in the weakness of the thing criticized.

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Many readers judge of the power of a book by the shock it gives their feelings.

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How wonderful is the human voice! It is indeed the organ of the soul. The intellect of man is enthroned visibly on his forehead and in his eye, and the heart of man is written on his countenance, but the soul, the soul reveals itself in the voice only.

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O lovely river of Yvette! O darling river! like a bride, Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide. O lovely river Yvette! O darling stream! on balanced wings The wood-birds sang the chansonnette That here a wandering poet sings.

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Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.

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If a woman shows too often the Medusa's head, she must not be astonished if her lover is turned into stone.

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