Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.

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Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

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Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.

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The secret anniversaries of the heart.

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My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea

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.... Anon from the castle walls The crescent banner falls, And the crowd beholds instead, Like a portent in the sky, Iskander's banner fly, The Black Eagle with double head. And shouts ascend on high .....'' Long live Scanderbeg.

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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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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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Each morning sees some task begin, each evening sees it close.

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A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thought's of youth are long, long thoughhts

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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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O Music! language of the soul, Of love, of God to man; Bright beam from heaven thrilling, That lightens sorrow's weight.

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I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.

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Learn to labour and to wait.

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If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!

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The human voice is the organ of the soul.

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When Christ ascended Triumphantly from star to star He left the gates of Heaven ajar.

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Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

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How absolute and omnipotent is the silence of night! And yet the stillness seems almost audible! From all the measureless depths of air around us comes a half-sound, a half-whisper, as if we could hear the crumbling and falling away of earth and all created things, in the great miracle of nature, decay and reproduction, ever beginning, never ending,--the gradual lapse and running of the sand in the great hour-glass of Time.

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I am weary of your quarrels, Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your wranglings and dissensions

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