Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest.

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The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.

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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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Nothing that is can pause or stay.

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Defeat may be victory in disguise.

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When thou are not pleased, beloved, Then my heart is sad and darkened, As the shining river darkens When the clouds drop shadows on it! When thou smilest, my beloved, Then my troubled heart is brightened, As in sunshine gleam the ripples That the cold wind makes in rivers.

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A noble type of good. Heroic womanhood.

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A young critic is like a boy with a gun; he fires at every living thing he sees. He thinks only of his own skill, not of the pain he is giving.

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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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Perhaps the greatest lesson which the lives of literary men teach us is told in a single word* Wait!

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As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.

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At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, That nothing with God can be accidental.

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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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So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.

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He spoke well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.

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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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Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.

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Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.

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Life is the gift of God, and is divine.

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Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,-- The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.

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