Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox.

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If you once understand an author's character, the comprehension of his writings becomes easy.

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O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be!

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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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I promise myself great pleasure from my visit to England. You know I am to stay with Dickens while in London; and beside his own very agreeable society, I shall enjoy that of the most noted literary men of the day, which will be a great gratification to me.

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Defeat may be victory in disguise.

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Taste the joy That springs from labor.

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Time, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry.

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The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

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Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

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The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.

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

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O lovely river of Yvette! O darling river! like a bride, Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide. O lovely river Yvette! O darling stream! on balanced wings The wood-birds sang the chansonnette That here a wandering poet sings.

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There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.

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Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.

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

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Art is the child of Nature; yes, Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her attitude, All her majestic loveliness Chastened and softened and subdued Into a more attractive grace, And with a human sense imbued. He is the greatest artist, then, Whether of pencil or of pen, Who follows Nature.

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The thoughts of Youth are long, long thoughts

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The things that have been and shall be no more, The things that are, and that hereafter shall be, The things that might have been, and yet were not, The fading twilight of joys departed.

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