Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, - always do what you are afraid to do.

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The men that women marry, And why they marry them, will always be A marvel and a mystery to the world.

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And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

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The course of my long life hath reached at last in fragile bark over a tempestuous sea the common harbor, where must rendered be account for all the actions of the past.

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Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.

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I will be a man among men; and no longer a dreamer among shadows.

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A life that is worth writing at all is worth writing minutely.

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But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.

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No one is so accursed by fate, no one so utterly desolate, but some heart though unknown responds unto his own.

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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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A coquette is a young lady of more beauty than sense, more accomplishments than learning, more charms not person than graces of mind, more admirers than friends, mole fools than wise men for attendants.

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

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As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so change of studies a dull brain.

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So disasters come not singly; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish.

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The thoughts of Youth are long, long thoughts

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Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!

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There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary.

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The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveler to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

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

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In ourselves are triumph and defeat.

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