Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.

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The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal.

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What discord we should bring into the universe if our prayers were all answered. Then we should govern the world and not God. And do you think we should govern it better? It gives me only pain when I hear the long, wearisome petitions of people asking for they know not what. . . . Thanks-giving with a full heart-and the rest silence and submission to the divine will!

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We often excuse our own want of philanthropy by giving the name of fanaticism to the more ardent zeal of others.

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

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Every man has his secret sorrows.

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Round about what is, lies a whole mysterious world of might be, a psychological romance of possibilities and things that do not happen.

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Does not all the blood within me Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, As the springs to meet the sunshine.

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Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

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How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

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Gone are the birds that were our summer guests.

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Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again.

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

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Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.

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Nothing is or can be accidental with God.

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The bravest are the tenderest.

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In what a forge and what a heat were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock; 'Tis of the wave and not the rock.

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Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

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The history of the past is a mere puppet-show. A little man comes out and blows a little trumpet, and goes in again. You look for something new, and lo! another little man comes out, and blows another little trumpet, and goes in again. And it is all over.

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