Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Kind messages, that pass from land to land; Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, In which we feel the pressure of a hand,-- One touch of fire,--and all the rest is mystery!

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Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares!

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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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I cannot believe any man can be perfectly well in body, who has much labor of the mind to perform.

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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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Wisely improve the Present. It is thine.

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Our faith triumphant o'er our fears.

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Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.

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

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Our blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are bright and full of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

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Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us.

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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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A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

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There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.

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Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.

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In youth all doors open outward; in old age all open inward.

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The moon is hidden behind a cloud... On the leaves is a sound of falling rain... No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near... So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.

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

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The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind in never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.

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A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.

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