Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

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Success is not something to wait for, it is something to work for.

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And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, and silently steal away.

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Would you learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers, comprehend its mystery!

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Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm.

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How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow Into the arctic regions of our lives, Where little else than life itself survives.

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And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

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Dost thou know what a hero is? Why, a hero is as much as one should say, a hero.

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Our faith triumphant o'er our fears.

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The prayer of Ajax was for light.

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Silence is a great peacemaker.

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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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Make not thyself the judge of any man.

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

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Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work rather that its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as a bad heart of Procreates turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.

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And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox.

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Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing.

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There are two angels that attend unseen Each one of us, and in great books record Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down The good ones, after every action closes His volume, and ascends with it to God. The other keeps his dreadful day-book open Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing, The record of the action fades away, And leaves a line of white across the page. Now if my act be good, as I believe it, It cannot be recalled. It is already Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished. The rest is yours.

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Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born, Sang with many a change, Christmas carols until morn.

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I saw the long line of the vacant shore, The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, As if the ebbing tide would flow no more.

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