Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveler to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

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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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What seems to us but dim funeral tapers may be heaven's distant lamps.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Memorial Quotes , Funeral Quotes

I venerate old age; and I love not the man who can look without emotion upon the sunset of life, when the dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broader and deeper upon the understanding.

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Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

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All your strength is in union, all your danger is in discord.

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People demand freedom only when they have no power.

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Ne speaketh not; and yet there lies a conversation in his eyes.

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Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.

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They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

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Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o’er our fears, are all with thee – are all with thee!

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Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep, All things within its bosom sleep! A single step, and all is o'er, A plunge, a bubble, and no more.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Suicide Quotes , Sleep Quotes

Oh, how beautiful is the summer night, which is not night, but a sunless, yet unclouded, day, descending upon earth with dews and shadows and refreshing coolness! How beautiful the long mild twilight, which, like a silver clasp, unites today with yesterday!

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Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Life Quotes , Color Quotes

After a day of cloud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And touching all the darksome woods with light, Smiles on the fields until they laugh and sing, Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring, Drops down into the night.

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Books are sepulchres of thought.

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The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.

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O ye dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, With drops of anguish falling fast and red From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill?

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The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

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Difficulty on the way to victory is opportunity for God to work

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