Softly the evening came /with the sunset/.— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The most delightful Henry Wadsworth Longfellow quotes that are new and everybody is talking about
A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books.
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.
Into each life some rain must fall.
It takes less time to do a thing right than to explain why you did it wrong.
My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea
The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain.
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• Quotes about Love
We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.
In this world you must either be an anvil or a hammer.
After a day of cloud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And touching all the darksome woods with light, Smiles on the fields until they laugh and sing, Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring, Drops down into the night.
Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the flowers, Kind deeds are the fruits, Take care of your garden And keep out the weeds, Fill it with sunshine, Kind words, and Kind deeds.
Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.
Music is the universal language of mankind.
'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.
Perseverance is a great element of success.
If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody.
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not;
and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard wordsbruise the heart of a child.
If a woman shows too often the Medusa's head, she must not be astonished if her lover is turned into stone.
If we love one another, nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen.
Winter giveth the fields, and the trees so old, their beards of icicles and snow.
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
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.
Nature paints not; In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven; With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds; And flying vapors.
Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.
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.
Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
A thought often makes us hotter than a fire.
And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.
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.
To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps.
You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.
Simplicity in character, in manners, in style; in all things the supreme excellence is simplicity.
Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.
The Nile, forever new and old, Among the living and the dead, Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled.
It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes and roofs of villages, on woodland crests and their aerial neighborhoods of nests deserted, on the curtained window-panes of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes and harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests.
Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.
Music is the universal language of mankind.
My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.
A coquette is a young lady of more beauty than sense, more accomplishments than learning, more charms not person than graces of mind, more admirers than friends, mole fools than wise men for attendants.
But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.
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.
Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.
Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay.
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 stain from the lees of the vat.
Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll.
The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.
Talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted.
Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung.
The great tragedy of the average man is that he goes to his grave with his music still in him.
It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.
Trust no future, however pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act -- act in the living Present! Heart within and God overhead.
For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.