Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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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And the bright faces of my young companions Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more.

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The bravest are the tenderest.

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The course of my long life hath reached at last in fragile bark over a tempestuous sea the common harbor, where must rendered be account for all the actions of the past.

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Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

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An enlightened mind is not hoodwinked; it is not shut up in a gloomy prison till it thinks the walls of its dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach of its own chain the outer verge of intelligence.

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I will be a man among men; and no longer a dreamer among shadows. Henceforth be mine a life of action and reality! I will work in my own sphere, nor wish it other than it is. This alone is health and happiness.

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Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat the stronger.

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I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart

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As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor. Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead Which, the more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

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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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Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares!

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Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!

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Books are sepulchres of thought.

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Torrent of light and river of air, Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen, Like gold and silver sands in some ravine Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!

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The emigrant's way o'er the western desert is mark'd by Camp-fires long consum'd and bones that bleach in the sunshine.

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Every man is in some sort a failure to himself. No one ever reaches the heights to which he aspires.

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By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven.

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Gone are the birds that were our summer guests.

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The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed.

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