Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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

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The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.

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Oh the long and dreary Winter! Oh the cold and cruel Winter!

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All nature ... is a respiration Of the Spirit of God, who, in breathing hereafter Will inhale it into his bosom again, So that nothing but God alone will remain.

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The soul never grows old.

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The world loves a spice of wickedness.

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And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.

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Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

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Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole heaven within it.

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Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung.

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O little souls! as pure as white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine!

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How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow Into the arctic regions of our lives, Where little else than life itself survives.

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Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.

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Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.

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

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As the heart is, so is love to the heart. It partakes of its strength or weakness, its health or disease.

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I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it. I stand in awe of my own opinion. The secret demerits of which we alone, perhaps, are conscious, are often more difficult to bear than those which have been publicly censured in us, and thus in some degree atoned for.

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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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Nature paints not; In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven; With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds; And flying vapors.

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Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born, Sang with many a change, Christmas carols until morn.

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