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In the long run men hit only what they aim at.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
Poet
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
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My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea
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The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.
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Fame grows like a tree if it have the principle of growth in it the accumulated dews of ages freshen its leaves.
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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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Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born, Sang with many a change, Christmas carols until morn.
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Youth comes but once in a lifetime.
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Buried was the bloody hatchet Buried was the dreadful war-club Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. Then was peace among the nations.
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In ourselves are triumph and defeat.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast.
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How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth and one hand.
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Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start.
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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.
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God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain over into this wilderness.
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Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.
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Don't cross the bridge til you come to it.
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The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light.
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Method is more important than strength, when you wish to control your enemies.
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All things are symbols.
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The things that have been and shall be no more, The things that are, and that hereafter shall be, The things that might have been, and yet were not, The fading twilight of joys departed.
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The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow