Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Taste the joy That springs from labor.

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Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice.

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Three silences there are: the first of speech, the second of desire, the third of thought.

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In the lives of the saddest of us, there are bright days like this, when we feel as if we could take the great world in our arms and kiss it. Then come the gloomy hours, when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor in our hearts; and all without and within is dismal, cold, and dark. Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.

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Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

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Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born, Sang with many a change, Christmas carols until morn.

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How can I tell the signals and the signs By which one heart another heart divines? How can I tell the many thousand ways By which it keeps the secret it betrays?

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

Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. . . . He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. . . . Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.

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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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Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

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Talk not of wasted affection - affection never was wasted.

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And when she was good she was very very good. But when she was bad she was horrid.

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The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveler to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

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As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so change of studies a dull brain.

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O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!

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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

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The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind in never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.

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Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.

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Resolve and thou art free.

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All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.

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