Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

All your strength in is your union. All your danger is in discord. Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together.

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How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and the heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!

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From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.

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The young may die, but the old must!

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The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.

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Our faith triumphant o'er our fears.

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Ambition is so powerful a passion in the human breast, that however high we reach we are never satisfied.

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Does not all the blood within me Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, As the springs to meet the sunshine.

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The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, and doing well whatever you do without thought of fame. If it comes at all it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after.

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

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It is foolish to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar.

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Books are sepulchres of thought.

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The soul...is audible, not visible.

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How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

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The heaven of poetry and romance still lies around us and within us.

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I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.

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Today is the blocks with which we build.

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My Book and Heart Shall never part.

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History casts its shadow far into the land of song.

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There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary.

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