Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest, Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest." And I make answer: "I am satisfied; I dare not ask; I know not what is best; God hath already said what shall betide.

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The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark

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How can I tell the signals and the signs By which one heart another heart divines? How can I tell the many thousand ways By which it keeps the secret it betrays?

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Listen my children and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere

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Fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.

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How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and the heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!

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The sea hath its pearls The heaven hath its stars But my heart, my heart Has its love.

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The nearer the dawn the darker the night.

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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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Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

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Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.

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Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.

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Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.

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All was silent as before - All silent save the dripping rain.

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Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll.

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Our hearts are lamps for ever burning.

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As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor. Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead Which, the more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

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Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

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So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go, Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

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Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.

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