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Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine.
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
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Shadow
Hate
Love
Life
Checkered
Shade
Sunshine
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
He spoke well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tis always morning somewhere.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The great tragedy of the average man is that he goes to his grave with his music still in him.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
We are all architects of faith, ever living in these walls of time.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born, Sang with many a change, Christmas carols until morn.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Mine is the Month of Roses yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The foliage of the valleys and the heights. Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights The mower's scythe makes music to my ear I am the mother of all dear delights I am the fairest daughter of the year.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Be noble in every thought And in every deed!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It is the heart and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Fear is the virtue of slaves but the heart that loveth is willing.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Stars of earth, these golden flowers emblems of our own great resurrection emblems of the bright and better land.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Love is a bodily shape and Christian works are no more than animate faith and love, as flowers are the animate springtide.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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
The world loves a spice of wickedness.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I am weary of your quarrels, Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your wranglings and dissensions
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Every author has the whole past to contend with all the centuries are upon him. He is compared with Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face the face of one long dead Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature, That fashions all her works in high relief, And that is Sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth, Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire Men, women, and all animals that breathe Are statues, and not paintings.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
