Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Art is the child of Nature.

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Winter giveth the fields, and the trees so old, their beards of icicles and snow.

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Books are sepulchres of thought.

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Rule by patience, Laughing Water!

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So disasters come not singly; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish.

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Wisely improve the Present. It is thine.

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Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.

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Our faith triumphant o'er our fears.

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Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!

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Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice triumphs.

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Youth comes but once a life time. Perhaps, but it remains strong in many for their entire lives.

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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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Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.

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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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Sang in tones of deep emotion Songs of love and songs of longing.

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To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.

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But the great Master said, "I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach".

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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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'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.

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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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