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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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
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Longfellow
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More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests.
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Sang in tones of deep emotion Songs of love and songs of longing.
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It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery we build where monsters used to hide themselves.
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Whoever benefits his enemy with straightforward intention that man's enemies will soon fold their hands in devotion.
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Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Perseverance is a great element of success. If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
They are dead but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.
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A stiff letter galls one like a stiff shirt collar -- whilst a sheet garnished here and there with a careless blot -- and here and there a dash -- but in the main full of excellent matter, is like a clever fellow in a dirty shirt whom we value for the good humour he brings with him and not for the garb he wears.
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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.
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The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.
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Kind messages, that pass from land to land Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, In which we feel the pressure of a hand,-- One touch of fire,--and all the rest is mystery!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tis always morning somewhere.
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One half the world must sweat and groan that the other half may dream.
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A handful of red sand from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought.
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So disasters come not singly But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
If spring came but once a century instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all the hearts to behold the miraculous change.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Our blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are bright and full of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
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