Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

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How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth and one hand.

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People demand freedom only when they have no power.

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

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And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said; "For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!" Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: "God is not dead, nor doth he sleep! The Wrong shall fail, the Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!

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The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure.

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The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers.

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Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.

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Perhaps the chief cause which has retarded the progress of poetry in America, is the want of that exclusive cultivation, which so noble a branch of literature would seem to require. Few here think of relying upon the exertion of poetic talent for a livelihood, and of making literature the profession of life. The bar or the pulpit claims the greater part of the scholar's existence, and poetry is made its pastime.

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Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work rather that its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as a bad heart of Procreates turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.

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I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Those only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady lambent light, are luminous, but not sparkling.

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The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.

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Perhaps the greatest lesson which the lives of literary men teach us is told in a single word* Wait!

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Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature, That fashions all her works in high relief, And that is Sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth, Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire; Men, women, and all animals that breathe Are statues, and not paintings.

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Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

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Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

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Winter giveth the fields, and the trees so old, their beards of icicles and snow.

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Thus, seamed with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal! Thus the tale ended.

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The soul...is audible, not visible.

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Dost thou know what a hero is? Why, a hero is as much as one should say, a hero.

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