Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

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To be strong is to be happy!

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Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun.

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Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.

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God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain over into this wilderness.

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If a woman shows too often the Medusa's head, she must not be astonished if her lover is turned into stone.

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How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

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And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, and silently steal away.

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A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.

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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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There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary.

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Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.

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

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'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.

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And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters

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Perhaps there lives some dreamy boy, untaught In schools, some graduate of the field or street, Who shall become a master of art, An admiral sailing the high seas of thought Fearless and first, and steering with his fleet For lands not yet laid down in any chart.

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The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed.

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Hope has as many lives as a cat or a king.

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The shadows of the mind are like those of the body. In the morning of life they all lie behind us; at noon we trample them under foot; and in the evening they stretch long, broad, and deepening before us.

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The natural alone is permanent. Fantastic idols may be worshipped for a while; but at length they are overturned by the continual and silent progress of Truth, as the grim statues of Copan have been pushed from their pedestals by the growth of forest-trees, whose seeds were sown by the wind in the ruined walls.

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