Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Some poems are like the Centaurs--a mingling of man and beast, and begotten of Ixion on a cloud.

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

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Does not all the blood within me Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, As the springs to meet the sunshine.

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I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it.

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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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Every human heart is human.

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For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.

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I am never indifferent, and never pretend to be, to what people say or think of my books. They are my children, and I like to have them liked.

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Were a star quenched on high,For ages would its light,Still travelling downward from the sky,Shine on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies,For years beyond our ken,The light he leaves behind him liesUpon the paths of men.

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The nimble lie Is like the second-hand upon a clock; We see it fly; while the hour-hand of truth Seems to stand still, and yet it moves unseen, And wins, at last, for the clock will not strike Till it has reached the goal.

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

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Tomorrow is the mysterious, unknown guest.

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In old age our bodies are worn-out instruments, on which the soul tries in vain to play the melodies of youth. But because the instrument has lost its strings, or is out of tune, it does not follow that the musician has lost his skill.

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The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone. Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world seems but a dim reflection - itself a broader shadow. We look forward into the coming lonely night. The soul withdraws into itself. Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

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Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat the stronger.

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Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

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Fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.

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The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf.

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The spirit-world around this world of sense Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense A vital breath of more ethereal air.

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