Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes and roofs of villages, on woodland crests and their aerial neighborhoods of nests deserted, on the curtained window-panes of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes and harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests.

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Love gives itself; it is not bought.

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Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe!

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I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon, In the round-tower of my heart, And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in the dust away!

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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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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

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If a woman shows too often the Medusa's head, she must not be astonished if her lover is turned into stone.

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How absolute and omnipotent is the silence of night! And yet the stillness seems almost audible! From all the measureless depths of air around us comes a half-sound, a half-whisper, as if we could hear the crumbling and falling away of earth and all created things, in the great miracle of nature, decay and reproduction, ever beginning, never ending,--the gradual lapse and running of the sand in the great hour-glass of Time.

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The men that women marry, And why they marry them, will always be A marvel and a mystery to the world.

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

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However things may seem, no evil thing is success and no good thing is failure.

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Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

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

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A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

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Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.

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A noble type of good. Heroic womanhood.

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Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.

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I promise myself great pleasure from my visit to England. You know I am to stay with Dickens while in London; and beside his own very agreeable society, I shall enjoy that of the most noted literary men of the day, which will be a great gratification to me.

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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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Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

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