Quote

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)

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
Look
Thee
Soothe
Looks
Forms
Thine
Writing
Sorrow
Solemn
Heart
Deep
Stream
Life
Voice
Streams
Write
Voices
Night
Theme
Affright
Form
Delight
Henceforth

More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Today is the blocks with which we build.
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The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.
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We are all architects of faith, ever living in these walls of time.
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To be strong is to be happy!
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Three silences there are: the first of speech, the second of desire, the third of thought.
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O little souls! as pure as white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine!
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It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea.
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Youth wrenches the sceptre from old age, and sets the crown on its own head before it is entitled to it.
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Life is the gift of God, and is divine.
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There rises the moon, broad and tranquil, through the branches of a walnut tree on a hill opposite. I apostrophize it in the words of Faust O gentle moon, that lookest for the last time upon my agonies! --or something to that effect.
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Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape Trinkling vapors arose and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
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When we walk towards the sun of Truth, all shadows are cast behind us.
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It is Lucifer, The son of mystery And since God suffers him to be, He too, is God's minister, And labors for some good By us not understood.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The secret anniversaries of the heart.
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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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Among the noblest in the land - Though man may count himself the least - That man I honor and revere, Who without favor, without fear, In the great city dares to stand, The friend of every friendless beast.
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And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.
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Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends.
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The emigrant's way o'er the western desert is mark'd by Camp-fires long consum'd and bones that bleach in the sunshine.
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I do not love thee less for what is done, And cannot be undone. Thy very weakness Hath brought thee nearer to me, and henceforth My love will have a sense of pity in it, Making it less a worship than before.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow