Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.

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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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All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.

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Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.

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Trust no future, however pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act -- act in the living Present! Heart within and God overhead.

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Oh, how beautiful is the summer night, which is not night, but a sunless, yet unclouded, day, descending upon earth with dews and shadows and refreshing coolness! How beautiful the long mild twilight, which, like a silver clasp, unites today with yesterday!

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Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest.

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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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The Wreck of the Hesperus But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.

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Time, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry.

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If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.

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The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind in never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.

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I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.

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O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!

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There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it.

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Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

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It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves.

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Life is the gift of God, and is divine.

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Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,-- The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.

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No action, whether foul or fair, Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere A record, written by fingers ghostly, As a blessing or a curse, and mostly In the greater weakness or greater strength Of the acts which follow it.

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