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The Devil hinders me. You know I say Just what I think, and nothing more nor less, And, when I pray, my heart is in my prayer. I cannot say one thing and mean another. If I can't pray, I will not make believe!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Believe
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Less
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Cannot
Nothing
Hinders
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Heart
Pray
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Devil
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
What shall I say to you? What can I say Better than silence is?
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The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light.
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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
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Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.
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So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go, Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
O little souls! as pure as white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine!
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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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If we could read the secret history of our enemies.
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I feel a kind of reverence for the first books of young authors. There is so much aspiration in them, so much audacious hope and trembling fear, so much of the heart's history, that all errors and shortcomings are for a while lost sight of in the amiable self assertion of youth.
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And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
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The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.
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Death is better than disease.
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People of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when a little in love.
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Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Music is the language spoken by angels.
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Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.
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All things are symbols.
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The secret anniversaries of the heart.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
