Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.

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They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

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For bells are the voice of the church; They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old.

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Some must follow and some command, through all are made oclay.

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And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said; "For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!" Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: "God is not dead, nor doth he sleep! The Wrong shall fail, the Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!

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As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so change of studies a dull brain.

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Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.

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Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.

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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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My designs and labors and aspirations are my only friends.

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When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it.

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Love is a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than animate faith and love, as flowers are the animate springtide.

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How like they are to human things!

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I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it.

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Love is the root of creation; God's essence; worlds without number Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only. Only to love and to be loved again.

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A spirit of criticism, if indulged in, leads to a censoriousness of disposition that is destructive of all nobler feeling. The man who lives to find faults has a miserable mission.

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

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I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.

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O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?

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Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Time Quotes , Heart Quotes