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I feel a kind of reverence for the first books of young authors. There is so much aspiration in them, so much audacious hope and trembling fear, so much of the heart's history, that all errors and shortcomings are for a while lost sight of in the amiable self assertion of youth.

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
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Longfellow
Much
Young
Sight
Amiable
Kind
Firsts
Youth
Shortcomings
Book
Books
Trembling
Self
Reading
Assertion
First
Hope
Authors
Feel
History
Aspiration
Feels
Fear
Reverence
Heart
Lost
Errors
Audacious

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Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.
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The Devil hinders me. You know I say Just what I think, and nothing more nor less, And, when I pray, my heart is in my prayer. I cannot say one thing and mean another. If I can't pray, I will not make believe!
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From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.
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The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.
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I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.
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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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Only a look and a voice then darkness again and silence.
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Age is opportunity no less than youth itself.
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Look, then, into thine heart, and write! Yes, into Life's deep stream! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright, - Be these henceforth thy theme. (excerpt from Voices of the Night)
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The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable.
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Into each life some rain must fall.
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Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail. And crying havoc on the slug and snail.
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Oh the long and dreary Winter! Oh the cold and cruel Winter!
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Death is better than disease.
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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.
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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
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Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.
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An angel visited the green earth, and took a flower away.
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The world loves a spice of wickedness.
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Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow