Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The moon is hidden behind a cloud... On the leaves is a sound of falling rain... No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near... So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.

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Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

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Truths that startled the generation in which they were first announced become in the next age the commonplaces of conversation; as the famous airs of operas which thrilled the first audiences come to be played on hand-organs in the streets.

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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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Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.

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Every author has the whole past to contend with; all the centuries are upon him. He is compared with Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.

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How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

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Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!

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O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?

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Stay, stay at home, my heart and rest; Home-keeping hearts are the happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care; To stay at home is best.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Happiness Quotes , Home Quotes

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear and the sorrow, All the aching of the heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Pain Quotes , Heart Quotes

The sentence of the first murderer was pronounced by the Supreme Judge of the universe. Was it death? No, it was life. 'A fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth'; and 'Whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold.

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The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark

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Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The foliage of the valleys and the heights. Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights; The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; I am the mother of all dear delights; I am the fairest daughter of the year.

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Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

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Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.

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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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More and more do I feel, as I advance in life, how little we really know of each other. Friendship seems to me like the touch of musical-glasses--it is only contact; but the glasses themselves, and their contents, remain quite distinct and unmingled.

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Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work rather that its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as a bad heart of Procreates turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.

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It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.

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