Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Time rides with the old At a great pace. As travellers on swift steeds See the near landscape fly and flow behind them, While the remoter fields and dim horizons Go with them, and seem wheeling round to meet them, So in old age things near us slip away, And distant things go with us.

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It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.

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The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.

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Chill air and wintry winds! My ear has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long.

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How can I teach your children gentleness and mercy to the weak, and reverence for life, which in its nakedness and excess, is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, when by your laws, your actions and your speech, you contradict the very things I teach?

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I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it. I stand in awe of my own opinion. The secret demerits of which we alone, perhaps, are conscious, are often more difficult to bear than those which have been publicly censured in us, and thus in some degree atoned for.

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All your strength is in union, all your danger is in discord.

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No action, whether foul or fair, Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere A record, written by fingers ghostly, As a blessing or a curse, and mostly In the greater weakness or greater strength Of the acts which follow it.

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

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Man is always more than he can know of himself; consequently, his accomplishments, time and again, will come as a surprise to him.

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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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And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

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But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.

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Dost thou know what a hero is? Why, a hero is as much as one should say, a hero.

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The market-place, the eager love of gain, Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain!

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'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.

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The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

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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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Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o’er our fears, are all with thee – are all with thee!

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Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

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