Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it.

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I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.

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In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere

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Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.

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History casts its shadow far into the land of song.

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All things must change To something new, to something strange.

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They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.

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To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest, Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest." And I make answer: "I am satisfied; I dare not ask; I know not what is best; God hath already said what shall betide.

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The Wreck of the Hesperus But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.

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Nothing is or can be accidental with God.

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This song of mine Is a song of the vine To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. and For the richest and best Is the wind of the West That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room With a bension on the giver. and When you ask one friend to dine, Give hime your best wine! When you ask two, The second best will do.

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O lovely river of Yvette! O darling river! like a bride, Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide. O lovely river Yvette! O darling stream! on balanced wings The wood-birds sang the chansonnette That here a wandering poet sings.

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But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.

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All things are symbols.

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Some must follow and some command, through all are made oclay.

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O lovely eyes of azure, Clear as the waters of a brook that run Limpid and laughing in the summer sun!

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The sun is set; and in his latest beams Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, The falling mantle of the Prophet seems.

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I know not how it is, but during a voyage I collect books as a ship does barnacles.

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Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.

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Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. . . . He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. . . . Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.

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