Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Art is the child of Nature; yes, Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her attitude, All her majestic loveliness Chastened and softened and subdued Into a more attractive grace, And with a human sense imbued. He is the greatest artist, then, Whether of pencil or of pen, Who follows Nature.

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Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.

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Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat, or in the dark, gray town where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man?

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Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, Having naught else but Hope.

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Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.

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Wondrous strong are the spells of fiction.

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Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.

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If spring came but once a century instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all the hearts to behold the miraculous change.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Nature Quotes , Time Quotes

That tree is very old, but I never saw prettier blossoms on it than it now bears. That tree grows new wood each year. Like that apple tree, I try to grow a new little wood each year.

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Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.

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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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Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!

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Nothing that is can pause or stay.

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We waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into potions which, after all, do not immortalize, but only intoxicate.

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Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape; Trinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.

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Let us be merciful as well as just.

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Fame grows like a tree if it have the principle of growth in it; the accumulated dews of ages freshen its leaves.

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

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How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams with its illusions, aspirations, dreams! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!

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For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom.

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