Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.

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None but yourself who are your greatest foe.

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There is no death! What seems so is transition; this life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian, whose portal we call Death.

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For next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one.

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Let us then, be up and doing.

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If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!

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The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.

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By the shores of Gitchee Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis, Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.

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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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Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.

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Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.

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For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

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Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.

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Buried was the bloody hatchet; Buried was the dreadful war-club; Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. Then was peace among the nations.

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

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See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!

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

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Stars of earth, these golden flowers; emblems of our own great resurrection; emblems of the bright and better land.

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