Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Sleep Quotes , Dust Quotes

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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Into a world unknown,-the corner-stone of a nation!

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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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Whatever hath been written shall remain, Nor be erased nor written o'er again; The unwritten only still belongs to thee: Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be.

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As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor. Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead Which, the more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

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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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Mercy more becomes a magistrate than the vindictive wrath which men call justice.

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Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet; This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey. Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert, Such in the soul of man is faith.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Flower Quotes , Journey Quotes

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

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

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The nearer the dawn the darker the night.

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

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The soul never grows old.

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To charm, to strengthen, and to teach: these are the three great chords of might.

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Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great.

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Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.

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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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When we walk towards the sun of Truth, all shadows are cast behind us.

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We waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into potions which, after all, do not immortalize, but only intoxicate.

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