Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Prayer is innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant 'twist the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.

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The foods that prolong life and increase purity, vigour, health, cheerfulness, and happiness are those that are delicious, soothing, substantial and agreeable... Foods that are bitter, sour, salt, over-hot, pungent, dry and burning produce unhappiness, repentance and disease.

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

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Into each life some rain must fall.

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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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A young critic is like a boy with a gun; he fires at every living thing he sees. He thinks only of his own skill, not of the pain he is giving.

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It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and drenched by the rain of life.

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Death is better than disease.

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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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All was ended now, the hope, and the fear and the sorrow, All the aching of the heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!

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Books are sepulchres of thought.

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Winter giveth the fields, and the trees so old, their beards of icicles and snow.

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I will be a man among men; and no longer a dreamer among shadows.

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Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.

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.... Anon from the castle walls The crescent banner falls, And the crowd beholds instead, Like a portent in the sky, Iskander's banner fly, The Black Eagle with double head. And shouts ascend on high .....'' Long live Scanderbeg.

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If you once understand an author's character, the comprehension of his writings becomes easy.

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Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

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Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

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The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.

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In ourselves are triumph and defeat.

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