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Whoever benefits his enemy with straightforward intention that man's enemies will soon fold their hands in devotion.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
Poet
Professor
Translator
Writer
Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Hands
Devotion
Men
Enemies
Intention
Benefits
Reconstruction
Soon
Fold
Enemy
Folds
Literature
Straightforward
Reality
Whoever

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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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Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.
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God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain over into this wilderness.
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What is time? The shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand, day and night, summer and winter, months, years, centuries-these are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of Time, not Time itself. Time is the Life of the Soul.
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But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again.
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Death is better than disease.
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Buried was the bloody hatchet Buried was the dreadful war-club Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. Then was peace among the nations.
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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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Even He that died for us upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mindful of His mother, as if to teach us that this holy love should be our last worldly thought - the last point of earth from which the soul should take its flight for heaven.
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My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea
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The smoking flax before it burst to flame Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed.
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One, if by land, and two, if by sea And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm For the country folk to be up and to arm.
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There are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
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The story, from beginning to end, I found again in a heart of a friend.
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'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.
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Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!
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They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.
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Authors have a greater right than any copyright, though it is generally unacknowledged or disregarded. They have a right to the reader's civility. There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it, and to these the author has a claim. Yet many people think that when they buy a book they buy with it the right to abuse the author.
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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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow