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Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.
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
Life
Green
Remembrance
Like
Dead
Neglected
Hand
Unseen
Gone
Graves
Living
Keeps
Scattering
Hands
Remain
Bounty
Stills
Rain
Still
Summer
Tombstone
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.
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Perhaps the greatest lesson which the lives of literary men teach us is told in a single word* Wait!
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A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
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Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends.
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Great men stand like solitary towers in the city of God.
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Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.
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For next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one.
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How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and the heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!
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The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.
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Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.
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Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.
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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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'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.
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The mind of the scholar, if he would leave it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds.
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For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter Of the Eternal's language - on earth it is called Forgiveness!
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The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy.
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O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!
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Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
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Where'er a noble deed is wrought, Where'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise.
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The soul...is audible, not visible.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
