Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Art is long, and Time is fleeting.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Life Quotes , Art Quotes

Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

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

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Some feelings are quite untranslatable; no language has yet been found for them. They gleam upon us beautifully through the dim twilight of fancy, and yet when we bring them close to us, and hold them up to the light of reason, lose their beauty all at once, as glow worms which gleam with such a spiritual light in the shadows of evening, when brought in where the candles are lighted, are found to be only worms like so many others.

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Many readers judge of the power of a book by the shock it gives their feelings - as some savage tribes determine the power of muskets by their recoil; that being considered best which fairly prostrates the purchaser.

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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

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Oh, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us!

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White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.

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Every man is in some sort a failure to himself. No one ever reaches the heights to which he aspires.

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Buried was the bloody hatchet; Buried was the dreadful war-club; Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. Then was peace among the nations.

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

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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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When Christ ascended Triumphantly from star to star He left the gates of Heaven ajar.

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They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

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Each morning sees some task begin, each evening sees it close.

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The warriors that fought for their country, and bled, Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed; No stone tells the place where their ashes repose, Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. They died in their glory, surrounded by fame, And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim; They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.

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Some poems are like the Centaurs--a mingling of man and beast, and begotten of Ixion on a cloud.

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The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

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I love an author the more for having been himself a lover of books.

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What shall I say to you? What can I say Better than silence is?

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