Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.

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Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.

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The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.

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As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor. Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead Which, the more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

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What heart has not acknowledged the influence of this hour, the sweet and soothing hour of twilight, the hour of love, the hour of adoration, the hour of rest, when we think of those we love only to regret that we have not loved them more dearly, when we remember our enemies only to forgive them.

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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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A noble type of good. Heroic womanhood.

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To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgment of others.

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From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.

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O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road!

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Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.

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The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.

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Often times we call a man [or woman] cold when he [or she] is only sad.

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Love is the root of creation; God's essence; worlds without number Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only. Only to love and to be loved again.

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With many readers, brilliancy of style passes for affluence of thought; they mistake buttercups in the grass for immeasurable gold mines under ground.

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A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.

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The history of the past is a mere puppet-show. A little man comes out and blows a little trumpet, and goes in again. You look for something new, and lo! another little man comes out, and blows another little trumpet, and goes in again. And it is all over.

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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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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest of all the arts.

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A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

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