Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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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I cannot believe any man can be perfectly well in body, who has much labor of the mind to perform.

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The soul never grows old.

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The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.

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Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun.

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

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What discord should we bring into the universe if our prayers were all answered! Then we should govern the world, and not God. And do you think we should govern it better?

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Even He that died for us upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mindful of His mother, as if to teach us that this holy love should be our last worldly thought - the last point of earth from which the soul should take its flight for heaven.

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Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends.

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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

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He that respects himself is safe from others. He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

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Fame grows like a tree if it have the principle of growth in it; the accumulated dews of ages freshen its leaves.

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Ne speaketh not; and yet there lies a conversation in his eyes.

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I am weary of your quarrels, Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your wranglings and dissensions

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There's not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall!

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Perhaps the chief cause which has retarded the progress of poetry in America, is the want of that exclusive cultivation, which so noble a branch of literature would seem to require. Few here think of relying upon the exertion of poetic talent for a livelihood, and of making literature the profession of life. The bar or the pulpit claims the greater part of the scholar's existence, and poetry is made its pastime.

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Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

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Today is the blocks with which we build.

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Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.

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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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