Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes in our hearts once more The rose of youth restore? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time and change, and for a single hour Renew this phantom-flower?

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'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.

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In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

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As Unto the bow the the cord is , So unto the man is woman; Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him , yet she follows: Useless each without the other.

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From labor there shall come forth rest.

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Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll.

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After a day of cloud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And touching all the darksome woods with light, Smiles on the fields until they laugh and sing, Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring, Drops down into the night.

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Let us then, be up and doing.

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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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There is no light in earth or heaven but the cold light of stars; and the first watch of night is given to the red planet Mars.

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In December ring Every day the chimes; Loud the gleemen sing In the streets their merry rhymes. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire!

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To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.

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Magnificent autumn! He comes not like a pilgrim, clad in russet weeds; not like a hermit, clad in gray; but like a warrior with the stain of blood in his brazen mail.

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Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

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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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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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To be infatuated with the power of one's own intellect is an accident which seldom happens but to those who are remarkable for the want of intellectual power. Whenever Nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

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One half the world must sweat and groan that the other half may dream.

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Your education begins where what is called your education is over. Your fate is but the common lot of all.

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The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

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