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Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the flowers, Kind deeds are the fruits, Take care of your garden And keep out the weeds, Fill it with sunshine, Kind words, and Kind deeds.
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
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Heart
Hearts
Weed
Kind
Garden
Sunshine
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Fill
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Fruits
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People demand freedom only when they have no power.
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Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.
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Whatever poet, orator, or sage may say of it, old age is still old age.
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Gone are the birds that were our summer guests.
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The soul never grows old.
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God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.
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It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and drenched by the rain of life.
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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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Youth, hope, and love: To build a new life on a ruined life, To make the future fairer than the past, And make the past appear a troubled dream.
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Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
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Be noble in every thought And in every deed!
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Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin, To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the Land of the Hereafter!
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When Christ ascended Triumphantly from star to star He left the gates of Heaven ajar.
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Learn to labour and to wait.
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The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.
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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.
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Today is the blocks with which we build.
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Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
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