Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.

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

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I do not love thee less for what is done, And cannot be undone. Thy very weakness Hath brought thee nearer to me, and henceforth My love will have a sense of pity in it, Making it less a worship than before.

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

Decide not rashly. The decision made Can never be recalled. The gods implore not, Plead not, solicit not; they only offer Choice and occasion, which once being passed Return no more. Dost thou accept the gift?

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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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Everyone says that forgiveness is a lovely idea until he has something to forgive.

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The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers.

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With useless endeavour Forever, forever, Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up the mountain!

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The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark

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A great sorrow, like a mariner's quadrant, brings the sun at noon down to the horizon, and we learn where we are on the sea of life.

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The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

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The Nile, forever new and old, Among the living and the dead, Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled.

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The course of my long life hath reached at last in fragile bark over a tempestuous sea the common harbor, where must rendered be account for all the actions of the past.

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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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I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart

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The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.

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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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A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.

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Art is the child of Nature.

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I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where.

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