Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Even He that died for us upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mindful of His mother, as if to teach us that this holy love should be our last worldly thought - the last point of earth from which the soul should take its flight for heaven.

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The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

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Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

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The human voice is the organ of the soul.

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The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure.

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But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again.

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The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, and doing well whatever you do without thought of fame. If it comes at all it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after.

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For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.

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We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.

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There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it.

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The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.

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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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The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone. Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world seems but a dim reflection - itself a broader shadow. We look forward into the coming lonely night. The soul withdraws into itself. Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

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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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We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps.

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Every author has the whole past to contend with; all the centuries are upon him. He is compared with Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.

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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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Big words do not smite like war-clubs, Boastful breath is not a bow-string, Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, Deeds are better things than words are, Actions mightier than boastings.

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The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.

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It is the heart and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain.

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