Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thought's of youth are long, long thoughhts

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I am the Angel of the Sun Whose flaming wheels began to run When God's almighty breath Said to the darkness and the Night, Let there be light! and there was light.

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The shadows of the mind are like those of the body. In the morning of life they all lie behind us; at noon we trample them under foot; and in the evening they stretch long, broad, and deepening before us.

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You would attain to the divine perfection.

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There is no flock, however watched and tended, but one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside howsoe'er defended, but has one vacant chair.

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Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin, To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the Land of the Hereafter!

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No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

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

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Chill air and wintry winds! My ear has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long.

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

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It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, - always do what you are afraid to do.

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These stars of earth, these golden flowers.

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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.

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Morality without religion is only a kind of dead reckoning - an endeavor to find our place on a cloudy sea by measuring the distance we have run, but without any observation of the heavenly bodies.

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Gone are the birds that were our summer guests.

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Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

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Joy, temperance, and repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose.

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In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

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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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God's voice was not in the earthquake, Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes.

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