Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.

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Like black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.

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Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Beautiful Quotes , Song Quotes

If spring came but once a century instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all the hearts to behold the miraculous change.

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Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.

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In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

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The warriors that fought for their country, and bled, Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed; No stone tells the place where their ashes repose, Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. They died in their glory, surrounded by fame, And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim; They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.

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All was ended now, the hope, and the fear and the sorrow, All the aching of the heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!

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As I gaze upon the sea! All the old romantic legends, all my dreams, come back to me.

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Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending.

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These stars of earth, these golden flowers.

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The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

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Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

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Authors have a greater right than any copyright, though it is generally unacknowledged or disregarded. They have a right to the reader's civility. There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it, and to these the author has a claim. Yet many people think that when they buy a book they buy with it the right to abuse the author.

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How like they are to human things!

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Talk not of wasted affection - affection never was wasted.

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Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, to some good angel leave the rest; For Time will teach thee soon the truth, there are no birds in last year's nest!

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The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.

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O little souls! as pure as white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine!

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

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