Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

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Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

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People demand freedom only when they have no power.

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Every man must patiently bide his time. He must wait -- not in listless idleness but in constant, steady, cheerful endeavors, always willing and fulfilling and accomplishing his task, that when the occasion comes he may be equal to the occasion.

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O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?

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Death is better than disease.

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The life of woman is full of woe, Toiling on and on and on, With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, The secret longings that arise, Which this world never satisfies! Some more, some less, but of the whole Not one quite happy, no, not one!

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O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road!

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If a woman shows too often the Medusa's head, she must not be astonished if her lover is turned into stone.

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Much must he toil who serves the Immortal Gods.

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Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.

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Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need.

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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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When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it.

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The poor too often turn away unheard, From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven.

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The course of my long life hath reached at last in fragile bark over a tempestuous sea the common harbor, where must rendered be account for all the actions of the past.

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As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire. And formed the seven-chorded lyre.

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Welcome, Disappointment! Thy hand is cold and hard, but it is the hand of a friend. Thy voice is stern and harsh, but it is the voice of a friend. Oh, there is something sublime in calm endurance, something sublime in the resolute, fixed purpose of suffering without complaining, which makes disappointment oftentimes better than success!

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Be thy sleep Silent as night is, and as deep.

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Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.

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