Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

By the shore of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, At the doorway of his wigwam, In the pleasant Summer morning, Hiawatha stood and waited.

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Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

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Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

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History casts its shadow far into the land of song.

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

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The student has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy, within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of an antique world and the glories of a modern one.

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I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

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If you would hit the mark, you must aim a little above it.

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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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This is the place. Stand still, my steed,- Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.

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Look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not in anger.

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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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Books are sepulchres of thought.

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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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We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.

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Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending.

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A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.

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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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Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes in our hearts once more The rose of youth restore? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time and change, and for a single hour Renew this phantom-flower?

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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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