Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken Pleasant visions, as of old! Though the house by winds be shaken, Safe I keep this room of gold!

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No endeavour is in vain; Its reward is in the doing.

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For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom.

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That was the first sound in the song of love! Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate. We hear The voice prophetic, and are not alone.

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Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.

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I know not how it is, but during a voyage I collect books as a ship does barnacles.

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Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

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Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

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Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice triumphs.

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Whoever benefits his enemy with straightforward intention that man's enemies will soon fold their hands in devotion.

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The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart, When the full river of feeling overflows;- The happy days unclouded to their close; The sudden joys that our of darkness start As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!

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More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish.

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Under a 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.

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The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.

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Know how sublime a thing it is to suffer and be strong.

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Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing.

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Like black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.

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What is time? The shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand, day and night, summer and winter, months, years, centuries-these are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of Time, not Time itself. Time is the Life of the Soul.

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

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The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.

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