Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Death is better than disease.

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

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I saw the long line of the vacant shore, The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, As if the ebbing tide would flow no more.

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Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The foliage of the valleys and the heights. Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights; The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; I am the mother of all dear delights; I am the fairest daughter of the year.

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Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.

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In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer.

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Beautiful in form and feature, lovely as the day, can there be so fair a creature formed of common clay?

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The happy should not insist too much upon their happiness in the presence of the unhappy.

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There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.

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Every man has his secret sorrows.

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Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet; This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey. Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert, Such in the soul of man is faith.

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A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society.

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Decide not rashly. The decision made Can never be recalled. The gods implore not, Plead not, solicit not; they only offer Choice and occasion, which once being passed Return no more. Dost thou accept the gift?

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All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.

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However things may seem, no evil thing is success and no good thing is failure.

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More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish.

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The sun is set; and in his latest beams Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, The falling mantle of the Prophet seems.

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And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls, The burial-ground God's-Acre.

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Our ingress into the world Was naked and bare; Our progress through the world Is trouble and care.

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