Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Beautiful Quotes , Summer 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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Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

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The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.

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Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us.

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Don Quixote thought he could have made beautiful bird-cages and toothpicks if his brain had not been so full of ideas of chivalry. Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.

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The sea hath its pearls The heaven hath its stars But my heart, my heart Has its love.

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Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.

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Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm.

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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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Wisely improve the Present. It is thine.

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The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.

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The swallow is come! The swallow is come! O, fair are the seasons, and light Are the days that she brings, With her dusky wings, And her bosom snowy white!

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Perhaps the greatest lesson which the lives of literary men teach us is told in a single word* Wait!

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Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

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Torrent of light and river of air, Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen, Like gold and silver sands in some ravine Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!

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Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.

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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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Whenever nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

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It takes less time to do a thing right, than it does to explain why you did it wrong.

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