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Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
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
Heart
Till
Cease
Tired
Late
Shall
Nothing
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Many critics are like woodpeckers, who, instead of enjoying the fruit and shadow of a tree, hop incessantly around the trunk, pecking holes in the bark to discover some little worm or other.
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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.
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He that respects himself is safe from others. He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.
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They are dead but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.
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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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Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, As in a foundering ship.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Then followed that beautiful season... Summer.... Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.
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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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A torn jacket is soon mended but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
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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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Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.
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Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes in our hearts once more The rose of youth restore? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time and change, and for a single hour Renew this phantom-flower?
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The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.
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People of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when a little in love.
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The day is dark and cold and dreary it rains, and the wind is never weary.
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The hearts of some women tremble like leaves at every breath of love which reaches them, and they are still again. Others, like the ocean, are moved only by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled to rest.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For oh, it is not always May!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Into each life some rain must fall.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
See yonder fire! It is the moon slow rising o'er the eastern hill. It glimmers on the forest tips, and through the dewy foliage drips In little rivulets of light, and makes the heart in love with night.
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The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed.
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