Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

History casts its shadow far into the land of song.

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Think not because no man sees, such things will remain unseen.

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Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

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Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.

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Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

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They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.

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A spirit of criticism, if indulged in, leads to a censoriousness of disposition that is destructive of all nobler feeling. The man who lives to find faults has a miserable mission.

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And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters

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All things are symbols: the external shows Of Nature have their image in the mind , As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves.

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Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.

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Don't cross the bridge til you come to it.

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Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine.

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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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Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater To raise the dead to life than to create Phantoms that seem to live.

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Many readers judge of the power of a book by the shock it gives their feelings.

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There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.

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Music is the language spoken by angels.

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Magnificent autumn! He comes not like a pilgrim, clad in russet weeds; not like a hermit, clad in gray; but like a warrior with the stain of blood in his brazen mail.

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Welcome, Disappointment! Thy hand is cold and hard, but it is the hand of a friend. Thy voice is stern and harsh, but it is the voice of a friend. Oh, there is something sublime in calm endurance, something sublime in the resolute, fixed purpose of suffering without complaining, which makes disappointment oftentimes better than success!

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No action, whether foul or fair, Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere A record, written by fingers ghostly, As a blessing or a curse, and mostly In the greater weakness or greater strength Of the acts which follow it.

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