Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

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Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!

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

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For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.

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Nothing that is can pause or stay.

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Gone are the birds that were our summer guests.

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Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends.

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Men are four; He who knows and knows not that he knows. He is asleep; wake him. He who knows not and knows not that he knows not. He is a fool; shun him. He who knows not and knows that he knows not. He is a child; teach him. He who knows and knows that he knows. He is a king; follow him. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.

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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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Many readers judge of the power of a book by the shock it gives their feelings - as some savage tribes determine the power of muskets by their recoil; that being considered best which fairly prostrates the purchaser.

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Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!

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It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes and roofs of villages, on woodland crests and their aerial neighborhoods of nests deserted, on the curtained window-panes of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes and harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests.

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The tragic element in poetry is like Saturn in alchemy, the Malevolent, the Destroyer of Nature ; but without it no true Aurum Potabile, or Elixir of Life, can be made.

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Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great.

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In youth all doors open outward; in old age all open inward.

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My own thoughts Are my companions.

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Each new epoch in life seems an encounter. There is a tussle and a cloud of dust, and we come out of it triumphant or crest-fallen, according as we have borne ourselves.

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Oh, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us!

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What child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, when spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails and the misty pennon of the east-wind nailed to the mast.

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This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

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