Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The tragic element in poetry is like Saturn in alchemy, the Malevolent, the Destroyer of Nature ; but without it no true Aurum Potabile, or Elixir of Life, can be made.

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My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.

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

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Like black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.

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Perhaps the chief cause which has retarded the progress of poetry in America, is the want of that exclusive cultivation, which so noble a branch of literature would seem to require. Few here think of relying upon the exertion of poetic talent for a livelihood, and of making literature the profession of life. The bar or the pulpit claims the greater part of the scholar's existence, and poetry is made its pastime.

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All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.

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Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles below Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lighted snow.

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Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise.

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A noble type of good. Heroic womanhood.

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People of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when a little in love.

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The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable.

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Age is opportunity no less than youth itself.

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Is this is a dream? O, if it be a dream, Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!

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What is time? The shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand, day and night, summer and winter, months, years, centuries-these are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of Time, not Time itself. Time is the Life of the Soul.

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'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

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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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Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

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The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.

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See yonder fire! It is the moon slow rising o'er the eastern hill. It glimmers on the forest tips, and through the dewy foliage drips In little rivulets of light, and makes the heart in love with night.

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Talk not of wasted affection - affection never was wasted.

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