Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Perhaps the chief cause which has retarded the progress of poetry in America, is the want of that exclusive cultivation, which so noble a branch of literature would seem to require. Few here think of relying upon the exertion of poetic talent for a livelihood, and of making literature the profession of life. The bar or the pulpit claims the greater part of the scholar's existence, and poetry is made its pastime.

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Thus, seamed with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal! Thus the tale ended.

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There is no flock, however watched and tended, but one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside howsoe'er defended, but has one vacant chair.

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If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!

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So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go, Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

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The air of summer was sweeter than wine.

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As I gaze upon the sea! All the old romantic legends, all my dreams, come back to me.

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

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Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.

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Taste the joy That springs from labor.

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Torrent of light and river of air, Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen, Like gold and silver sands in some ravine Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!

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Who dares To say that he alone has found the truth?

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Take this sorrow to thy heart and make it part of thee, and it shall nourish thee till thou art strong again.

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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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Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.

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

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Will without power is like children playing at soldiers.

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Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!

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The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.

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