Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes
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The blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are bright and full of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
[Passion]
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The bravest are the tenderest. The loving are the daring.
[Courage]
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The counterfeit and counterpart of nature are reproduced in art.
[Nature]
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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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The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal.
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The day is done, and the darkness, Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward, From an eagle in his flight
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The day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!
[Twilight]
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The divine insanity of noble minds, that never falters nor abates, but labors, endures, and waits, till all that it foresees it finds, or what it cannot find, creates.
[Perseverance]
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The evening came.-The setting sun stretched his celestial rods of light across the level landscape, and like the miracle in Egypt, smote the rivers, the brooks, and the ponds, and they became as blood.
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The every day cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time, giving its pendulum a true vibration, and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon the wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move, and the clock stands still.
[Care]
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The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine; afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness, the taste and strain from the lees of the vat.
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The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, kisses the blushing leaf.
[Wind]
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The grave is but a covered bridge Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!
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The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy.
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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.
[Greatness]
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The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
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The history of the past is a mere puppet show.-A little man comes out and blows a little trumpet, and goes in again.-You look for something new, and lo! another little man comes out and blows another little trumpet, and goes in again.-And it is all over.
[History]
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The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart, the secret anniversaries of the heart, when the full tide of feeling overflows.
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The human voice is the organ of the soul.
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The intellect of man sits visibly enthroned upon his forehead and in his eye, and the heart of man is written upon his countenance. But the soul reveals itself in the voice only, as God revealed Himself to the prophet of old in the still small voice, and in the voice from the burning bush.
[Soul]
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