Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Some critics are like chimney-sweepers; they put out the fire below, and frighten the swallows from their nests above; they scrape a long time in the chimney, cover themselves with soot, and bring nothing away but a bag of cinders, and then sing from the top of the house as if they had built it.

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Our faith triumphant o'er our fears.

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A thought often makes us hotter than a fire.

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Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.

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Silence is a great peacemaker.

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The student has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy, within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of an antique world and the glories of a modern one.

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Youth, hope, and love: To build a new life on a ruined life, To make the future fairer than the past, And make the past appear a troubled dream.

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I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where.

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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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So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.

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Our blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are bright and full of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

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The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain.

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Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. . . . He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. . . . Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.

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Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

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That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.

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All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.

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God's voice was not in the earthquake, Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes.

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Mercy more becomes a magistrate than the vindictive wrath which men call justice.

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Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

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Perseverance is a great element of success.

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