Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Thus, seamed with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal! Thus the tale ended.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Stars Quotes , Warrior Quotes

Each day is a branch of the Tree of Life laden heavily with fruit. If we lie down lazily beneath it, we may starve; but if we shake the branches, some of the fruit will fall for us.

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All your strength is in union, all your danger is in discord.

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Every man is in some sort a failure to himself. No one ever reaches the heights to which he aspires.

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The poor too often turn away unheard, From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven.

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Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work rather that its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as a bad heart of Procreates turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.

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Is this is a dream? O, if it be a dream, Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!

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Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.

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But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust.

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Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.

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I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Friendship Quotes , Song Quotes

All the means of action -- the shapeless masses -- the materials -- lie everywhere about us. What we need is the celestial fire to change the flint into the transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius.

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

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To be left alone, and face to face with my own crime, had been just retribution.

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Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.

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Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.

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The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

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Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.

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The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.

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Out of the shadows of night The world rolls into light.

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