Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Fortune comes well to all that comes not late.

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Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat, or in the dark, gray town where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man?

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

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An enlightened mind is not hoodwinked; it is not shut up in a gloomy prison till it thinks the walls of its dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach of its own chain the outer verge of intelligence.

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The bells themselves are the best of preachers, Their brazen lips are learned teachers, From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, Shriller than trumpets under the Law, Now a sermon and now a prayer.

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Be thy sleep Silent as night is, and as deep.

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Music is the language spoken by angels.

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Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, Having naught else but Hope.

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As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire. And formed the seven-chorded lyre.

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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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No man is so poor as to have nothing worth giving.

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Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!

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For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter Of the Eternal's language; - on earth it is called Forgiveness!

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If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!

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Truths that startled the generation in which they were first announced become in the next age the commonplaces of conversation; as the famous airs of operas which thrilled the first audiences come to be played on hand-organs in the streets.

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Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

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Difficulty on the way to victory is opportunity for God to work

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Books are sepulchres of thought.

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Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!

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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.

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