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Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Lovely
Angel
Blossomed
Infinite
Nots
Stars
Starlight
Heaven
Angelic
Forget
Silently
Universe
Meadows
Angels
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.
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There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.
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Who dares To say that he alone has found the truth?
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Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
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A spirit of criticism, if indulged in, leads to a censoriousness of disposition that is destructive of all nobler feeling. The man who lives to find faults has a miserable mission.
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Silence is a great peacemaker.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.
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Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn Something with passion clasp, or perish And in itself to ashes burn.
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Nature is a revelation of God Art a revelation of man.
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Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.
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God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain over into this wilderness.
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To be strong is to be happy!
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I am the Angel of the Sun Whose flaming wheels began to run When God's almighty breath Said to the darkness and the Night, Let there be light! and there was light.
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So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.
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Hope has as many lives as a cat or a king.
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Youth comes but once in a lifetime.
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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
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A word that has been said may be unsaid-it is but air. But when a deed is done, it cannot be undone, nor can our thoughts reach out to all the mischiefs that may follow.
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Where'er a noble deed is wrought, Where'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise.
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In December ring Every day the chimes Loud the gleemen sing In the streets their merry rhymes. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow