Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

To be infatuated with the power of one's own intellect is an accident which seldom happens but to those who are remarkable for the want of intellectual power. Whenever Nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

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Every man has his secret sorrows.

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When you ask one friend to dine, Give him your best wine! When you ask two, The second best will do!

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If we could read the secret history of our enemies.

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

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In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

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With useless endeavour Forever, forever, Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up the mountain!

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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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I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where.

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Talk not of wasted affection - affection never was wasted.

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Let us, then, be what we are; speak what we think; and in all things keep ourselves loyal to truth.

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Men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive in what they do than the approbation of men, which is fame, namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself.

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It is true, that it is not at all necessary to love many books, in order to love them much.

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Sometimes we may learn more from a man's errors, than from his virtues.

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They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.

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And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.

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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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Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, Having naught else but Hope.

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The great tragedy of the average man is that he goes to his grave with his music still in him.

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This song of mine Is a song of the vine To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. and For the richest and best Is the wind of the West That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room With a bension on the giver. and When you ask one friend to dine, Give hime your best wine! When you ask two, The second best will do.

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