Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Men are four; He who knows and knows not that he knows. He is asleep; wake him. He who knows not and knows not that he knows not. He is a fool; shun him. He who knows not and knows that he knows not. He is a child; teach him. He who knows and knows that he knows. He is a king; follow him. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.

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Often times we call a man [or woman] cold when he [or she] is only sad.

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These stars of earth, these golden flowers.

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A sermon is no sermon in which I cannot hear the heartbeat.

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I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Those only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady lambent light, are luminous, but not sparkling.

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Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater To raise the dead to life than to create Phantoms that seem to live.

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The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.

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

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O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!

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It is Lucifer, The son of mystery; And since God suffers him to be, He too, is God's minister, And labors for some good By us not understood.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Son Quotes , Suffering Quotes

Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.

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Thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern True beauty in utility.

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To charm, to strengthen, and to teach: these are the three great chords of might.

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This will be a great day in our history; the date of a New Revolution - quite as much needed as the old one. Even now as I write they are leading old John Brown to execution in Virginia for attempting to rescue slaves! This is sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind which will come soon!

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It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

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The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

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He had mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic mittens made of deer-skin; When upon his hands he wore them, He could smite the rocks asunder, He could grind them into powder.

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But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust.

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The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure.

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No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.

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