Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The Nile, forever new and old, Among the living and the dead, Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled.

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Even cities have their graves!

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Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

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The smoking flax before it burst to flame Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed.

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It is a beautiful trait in the lover's character, that they think no evil of the object loved.

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

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If you once understand an author's character, the comprehension of his writings becomes easy.

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Our faith triumphant o'er our fears.

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Method is more important than strength, when you wish to control your enemies.

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Would you learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers, comprehend its mystery!

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For his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.

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Tomorrow is the mysterious, unknown guest.

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Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.

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Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

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But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again.

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I see, but cannot reach, the height That lies forever in the light.

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Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes in our hearts once more The rose of youth restore? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time and change, and for a single hour Renew this phantom-flower?

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It is true, that it is not at all necessary to love many books, in order to love them much.

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This song of mine Is a song of the vine To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. and For the richest and best Is the wind of the West That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room With a bension on the giver. and When you ask one friend to dine, Give hime your best wine! When you ask two, The second best will do.

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The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.

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