Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear and the sorrow, All the aching of the heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!

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The young may die, but the old must!

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All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.

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Beautiful in form and feature, lovely as the day, can there be so fair a creature formed of common clay?

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If we could read the secret history of our enemies.

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Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

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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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The story, from beginning to end, I found again in a heart of a friend.

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Trust no future, however pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act -- act in the living Present! Heart within and God overhead.

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There's not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall!

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The Devil hinders me. You know I say Just what I think, and nothing more nor less, And, when I pray, my heart is in my prayer. I cannot say one thing and mean another. If I can't pray, I will not make believe!

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The human voice is the organ of the soul.

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Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.

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Work is my recreation, The play of faculty; a delight like that Which a bird feels in flying, or a fish In darting through the water,--Nothing more.

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Our faith triumphant o'er our fears.

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Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

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In the life of every man there are sudden transitions of feeling, which seem almost miraculous. At once, as if some magician had touched the heavens and the earth, the dark clouds melt into the air, the wind falls, and serenity succeeds the storm. The causes which produce these changes may have been long at work within us, but the changes themselves are instantaneous, and apparently without sufficient cause.

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Books are sepulchres of thought.

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There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.

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Out of the shadows of night The world rolls into light.

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