Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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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O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be!

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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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Don't cross the bridge til you come to it.

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Every human heart is human.

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Stars of earth, these golden flowers; emblems of our own great resurrection; emblems of the bright and better land.

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A solid man of Boston; A comfortable man with dividends, And the first salmon and the first green peas.

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My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.

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

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To be left alone, and face to face with my own crime, had been just retribution.

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The strength of criticism lies in the weakness of the thing criticized.

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Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

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

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How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams with its illusions, aspirations, dreams! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!

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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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Into a world unknown,-the corner-stone of a nation!

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As Unto the bow the the cord is , So unto the man is woman; Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him , yet she follows: Useless each without the other.

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The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart, When the full river of feeling overflows;- The happy days unclouded to their close; The sudden joys that our of darkness start As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!

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There is nothing perfectly secure but poverty.

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See yonder fire! It is the moon slow rising o'er the eastern hill. It glimmers on the forest tips, and through the dewy foliage drips In little rivulets of light, and makes the heart in love with night.

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