Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

All was silent as before - All silent save the dripping rain.

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O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?

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Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.

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Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. . . . He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. . . . Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.

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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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No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.

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

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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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The day is dark and cold and dreary; it rains, and the wind is never weary.

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Learn to labour and to wait.

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Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

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

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Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

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There is nothing perfectly secure but poverty.

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When thou are not pleased, beloved, Then my heart is sad and darkened, As the shining river darkens When the clouds drop shadows on it! When thou smilest, my beloved, Then my troubled heart is brightened, As in sunshine gleam the ripples That the cold wind makes in rivers.

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It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, - always do what you are afraid to do.

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To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest, Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest." And I make answer: "I am satisfied; I dare not ask; I know not what is best; God hath already said what shall betide.

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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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Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.

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The tragic element in poetry is like Saturn in alchemy, the Malevolent, the Destroyer of Nature ; but without it no true Aurum Potabile, or Elixir of Life, can be made.

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