Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

.... 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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Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.

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Sang in tones of deep emotion Songs of love and songs of longing.

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Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll.

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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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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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People of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when a little in love.

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You would attain to the divine perfection.

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Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.

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The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.

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Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.

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Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!

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Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.

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The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.

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Tis always morning somewhere.

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The swallow is come! The swallow is come! O, fair are the seasons, and light Are the days that she brings, With her dusky wings, And her bosom snowy white!

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My own thoughts Are my companions.

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The young may die, but the old must!

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In old age our bodies are worn-out instruments, on which the soul tries in vain to play the melodies of youth. But because the instrument has lost its strings, or is out of tune, it does not follow that the musician has lost his skill.

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Often times we call a man [or woman] cold when he [or she] is only sad.

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