Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The life of woman is full of woe, Toiling on and on and on, With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, The secret longings that arise, Which this world never satisfies! Some more, some less, but of the whole Not one quite happy, no, not one!

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For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter Of the Eternal's language; - on earth it is called Forgiveness!

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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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He spoke well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.

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Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, a shadow on those features fair and thin. And softly, from the hushed and darkened room, two angels issued, where but one went in.

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Some must follow and some command, through all are made oclay.

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My own thoughts Are my companions.

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I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

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No one is so accursed by fate, no one so utterly desolate, but some heart though unknown responds unto his own.

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

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I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.

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Nothing with God can be accidental.

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

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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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How wonderful is the human voice! It is indeed the organ of the soul. The intellect of man is enthroned visibly on his forehead and in his eye, and the heart of man is written on his countenance, but the soul, the soul reveals itself in the voice only.

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Nature is a revelation of God; Art a revelation of man.

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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

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Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles below Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lighted snow.

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The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.

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