Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

When Christ ascended Triumphantly from star to star He left the gates of Heaven ajar.

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There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

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Nothing that is can pause or stay; / The moon will wax, the moon will wane, / The mist and cloud will turn to rain, / The rain to mist and cloud again, / Tomorrow be today.

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Some must follow and some command, through all are made oclay.

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For next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one.

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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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The great tragedy of the average man is that he goes to his grave with his music still in him.

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Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the flowers, Kind deeds are the fruits, Take care of your garden And keep out the weeds, Fill it with sunshine, Kind words, and Kind deeds.

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By the shore of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, At the doorway of his wigwam, In the pleasant Summer morning, Hiawatha stood and waited.

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The pleasant books, that silently among Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces!

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Music is the language spoken by angels.

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A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.

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

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There is no death! What seems so is transition; this life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian, whose portal we call Death.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Inspirational Quotes , Life Quotes

Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.

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I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.

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

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Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.

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O ye dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, With drops of anguish falling fast and red From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill?

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