Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.

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Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending.

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The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart, When the full river of feeling overflows;- The happy days unclouded to their close; The sudden joys that our of darkness start As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!

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The story, from beginning to end, I found again in a heart of a friend.

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Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.

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The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.

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The emigrant's way o'er the western desert is mark'd by Camp-fires long consum'd and bones that bleach in the sunshine.

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Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends.

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Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine.

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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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Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

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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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In what a forge and what a heat were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock; 'Tis of the wave and not the rock.

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There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.

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If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!

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

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Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

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My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea

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Softly the evening came /with the sunset/.

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The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine; afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness, the taste and stain from the lees of the vat.

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