Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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

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We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.

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I feel a kind of reverence for the first books of young authors. There is so much aspiration in them, so much audacious hope and trembling fear, so much of the heart's history, that all errors and shortcomings are for a while lost sight of in the amiable self assertion of youth.

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And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox.

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In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

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Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us.

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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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Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.

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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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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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Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.

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I hear the wind among the trees Playing the celestial symphonies; I see the branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument.

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The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

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There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary.

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See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!

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Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.

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But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again.

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The great tragedy of the average man is that he goes to his grave with his music still in him.

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

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