Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Nothing that is can pause or stay.

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O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road!

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Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside.

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Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.

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The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf.

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In the lives of the saddest of us, there are bright days like this, when we feel as if we could take the great world in our arms and kiss it. Then come the gloomy hours, when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor in our hearts; and all without and within is dismal, cold, and dark. Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.

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Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay.

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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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Decide not rashly. The decision made Can never be recalled. The gods implore not, Plead not, solicit not; they only offer Choice and occasion, which once being passed Return no more. Dost thou accept the gift?

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Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again.

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In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

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All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.

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It is Lucifer, The son of mystery; And since God suffers him to be, He too, is God's minister, And labors for some good By us not understood.

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The men that women marry, And why they marry them, will always be A marvel and a mystery to the world.

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

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It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves.

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And when she was good she was very very good. But when she was bad she was horrid.

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Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.

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

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The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure.

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