Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Does not all the blood within me Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, As the springs to meet the sunshine.

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That was the first sound in the song of love! Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate. We hear The voice prophetic, and are not alone.

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Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, let us be merciful as well as just

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Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay.

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The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.

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And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

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In the long run men hit only what they aim at.

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Each new epoch in life seems an encounter. There is a tussle and a cloud of dust, and we come out of it triumphant or crest-fallen, according as we have borne ourselves.

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Make not thyself the judge of any man.

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Listen my children and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere

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The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine; afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness, the taste and stain from the lees of the vat.

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

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Where'er a noble deed is wrought, Where'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise.

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Today is the blocks with which we build.

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Our hearts are lamps for ever burning.

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Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.

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Is this is a dream? O, if it be a dream, Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!

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It is foolish to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar.

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In the lives of the saddest of us, there are bright days like this, when we feel as if we could take the great world in our arms and kiss it. Then come the gloomy hours, when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor in our hearts; and all without and within is dismal, cold, and dark. Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.

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Nature is a revelation of God; Art a revelation of man.

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