Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone. Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world seems but a dim reflection - itself a broader shadow. We look forward into the coming lonely night. The soul withdraws into itself. Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

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Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Life Quotes , Summer Quotes

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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To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.

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Torrent of light and river of air, Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen, Like gold and silver sands in some ravine Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!

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Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.

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Ambition's cradle oftenest is its grave

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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls, The burial-ground God's-Acre.

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As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.

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The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light.

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Life like an empty dream flits by.

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Bell, thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie! Bell, thou soundest solemnly, When, on Sabbath morning, Fields deserted lie!

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Dreams or illusions, call them what you will, they lift us from the commonplace of life to better things.

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He spoke well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.

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The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

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Do not delay, Do not delay: the golden moments fly!

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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

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All things are symbols: the external shows Of Nature have their image in the mind , As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves.

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Each morning sees some task begin, each evening sees it close.

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In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

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