Books by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Art is the child of Nature; yes, Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her attitude, All her majestic loveliness Chastened and softened and subdued Into a more attractive grace, And with a human sense imbued. He is the greatest artist, then, Whether of pencil or of pen, Who follows Nature. |
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I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower. |
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Stars of the summer night! Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! |
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The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness! |
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I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! |
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Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time shall disappear,— Forever there, but never here! The [[wikt:horologe|horologe]] of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly,— "Forever — never! Never — forever!" |
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Music is the universal language of mankind — poetry their universal pastime and delight. |
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A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. |
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Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. |
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O Bells of San Blas in vain Ye call back the Past again; The Past is deaf to your prayer! Out of the shadows of night The world rolls into light; It is daybreak everywhere. |
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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. |
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Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all. |
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There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. |
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We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done. |
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The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior! |
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Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think. |
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Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and with a manly heart. |
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Three Silences there are: the first of speech, The second of desire, the third of thought; This is the lore a Spanish monk, distraught With dreams and visions, was the first to teach. |
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Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. |
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What land is this? Yon pretty town Is Delft, with all its wares displayed: The pride, the market-place, the crown And centre of the Potter's trade. |
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Look, then, into thine heart, and write! |
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In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face — the face of one long dead — Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. |
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Great is the art of beginning, but greater the art is of ending; Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse. |
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No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own. |
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Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet! |
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O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on! |
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I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it. I stand in awe of my own opinion. The secret demerits of which we alone, perhaps, are conscious, are often more difficult to bear than those which have been publicly censured in us, and thus in some degree atoned for. |
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The warriors that fought for their country, and bled, Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed; No stone tells the place where their ashes repose, Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. They died in their glory, surrounded by fame, |
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There was a little girl, Who had a little curl, Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, She was very good indeed, But when she was bad she was horrid. |
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A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood. |
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I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where. |
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And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. |
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There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. |
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Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. |
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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 river of feeling overflows. |
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But the great Master said, "I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. |
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There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair! |
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I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. |
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If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning! |
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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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Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupation, That is known as the Children's Hour. |
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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. |
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But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language, Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes over-running with laughter, Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" |
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Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must change To something new, to something strange; Nothing that is can pause or stay; The moon will wax, the moon will wane, The mist and cloud will turn to rain, The rain to mist and cloud again, To-morrow be to-day. |
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If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility. |
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God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again. |
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Thus, seamed with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal! —Thus the tale ended. |
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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. |
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Biography
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Evangeline
A Tale of Acadie
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Greetings from Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Tales of a Wayside Inn
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The Song of Hiawatha
An Epic Poem