Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.

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Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

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Our hearts are lamps for ever burning.

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Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame.

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You would attain to the divine perfection.

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Music is the universal language of mankind.

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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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Ambition's cradle oftenest is its grave

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It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

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We often excuse our own want of philanthropy by giving the name of fanaticism to the more ardent zeal of others.

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I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it. I stand in awe of my own opinion. The secret demerits of which we alone, perhaps, are conscious, are often more difficult to bear than those which have been publicly censured in us, and thus in some degree atoned for.

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Make not thyself the judge of any man.

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Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.

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The nimble lie Is like the second-hand upon a clock; We see it fly; while the hour-hand of truth Seems to stand still, and yet it moves unseen, And wins, at last, for the clock will not strike Till it has reached the goal.

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I am never indifferent, and never pretend to be, to what people say or think of my books. They are my children, and I like to have them liked.

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Talk not of wasted affection - affection never was wasted.

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Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.

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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.

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Art is the child of Nature.

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From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.

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