Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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

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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest of all the arts.

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Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.

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Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.

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The tragic element in poetry is like Saturn in alchemy, the Malevolent, the Destroyer of Nature ; but without it no true Aurum Potabile, or Elixir of Life, can be made.

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The great tragedy of the average man is that he goes to his grave with his music still in him.

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Evil is only good perverted.

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Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.

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An angel visited the green earth, and took a flower away.

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To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgment of others.

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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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Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.

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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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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 natural alone is permanent. Fantastic idols may be worshipped for a while; but at length they are overturned by the continual and silent progress of Truth, as the grim statues of Copan have been pushed from their pedestals by the growth of forest-trees, whose seeds were sown by the wind in the ruined walls.

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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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And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

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The twilight that surrounds the border-land of old romance.

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The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.

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It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

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