Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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

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It takes less time to do a thing right, than it does to explain why you did it wrong.

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The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers.

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There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it.

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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest of all the arts.

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All things must change To something new, to something strange.

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A thought often makes us hotter than a fire.

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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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The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light.

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There's not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall!

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The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind in never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.

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Ambition is so powerful a passion in the human breast, that however high we reach we are never satisfied.

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It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and drenched by the rain of life.

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Give what you have. To some one, it may be better than you dare to think.

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O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road!

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To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.

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

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Wondrous strong are the spells of fiction.

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Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

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This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

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