Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet; This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey. Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert, Such in the soul of man is faith.

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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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O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!

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Tis always morning somewhere.

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Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.

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The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.

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O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on!

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A solid man of Boston; A comfortable man with dividends, And the first salmon and the first green peas.

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Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

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How wonderful is the human voice! It is indeed the organ of the soul. The intellect of man is enthroned visibly on his forehead and in his eye, and the heart of man is written on his countenance, but the soul, the soul reveals itself in the voice only.

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'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

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With many readers, brilliancy of style passes for affluence of thought; they mistake buttercups in the grass for immeasurable gold mines under ground.

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

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Whoever benefits his enemy with straightforward intention that man's enemies will soon fold their hands in devotion.

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Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.

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The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.

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The things that have been and shall be no more, The things that are, and that hereafter shall be, The things that might have been, and yet were not, The fading twilight of joys departed.

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

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Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.

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