Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

We are all architects of faith, ever living in these walls of time.

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I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Those only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady lambent light, are luminous, but not sparkling.

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There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

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Nothing with God can be accidental.

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In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer.

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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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"Do not fear! Heaven is as near," He said, "by water as by land!"

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

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The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.

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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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And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

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The moon is hidden behind a cloud... On the leaves is a sound of falling rain... No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near... So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.

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

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The hearts of some women tremble like leaves at every breath of love which reaches them, and they are still again. Others, like the ocean, are moved only by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled to rest.

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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls, The burial-ground God's-Acre.

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No man is so poor as that. As well might the mountain streamlets say they have nothing worth giving to the sea, because they are not rivers. Give what you have. To some one, it may be better than you dare to think.

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I love thee, as the good love heaven.

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The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service.

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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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This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

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