Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

When we walk towards the sun of Truth, all shadows are cast behind us.

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The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.

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Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

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The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.

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How can I teach your children gentleness and mercy to the weak, and reverence for life, which in its nakedness and excess, is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, when by your laws, your actions and your speech, you contradict the very things I teach?

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To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.

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Into each life some rain must fall.

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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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With useless endeavour Forever, forever, Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up the mountain!

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

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Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

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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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It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes and roofs of villages, on woodland crests and their aerial neighborhoods of nests deserted, on the curtained window-panes of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes and harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests.

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The poor too often turn away unheard, From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven.

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Listen my children and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere

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Life like an empty dream flits by.

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The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.

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Art is long, and Time is fleeting.

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What child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, when spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails and the misty pennon of the east-wind nailed to the mast.

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Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.

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