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What is time? The shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand, day and night, summer and winter, months, years, centuries-these are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of Time, not Time itself. Time is the Life of the Soul.

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
Writer
Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Night
Measure
Dial
Soul
Winter
Striking
Years
Shadow
Outward
Time
Summer
Arbitrary
Life
Months
Signs
Century
Centuries
Inspirational
Sand
Running
Clock

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My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.
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For his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.
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The moon is hidden behind a cloud... On the leaves is a sound of falling rain... No other sounds than these I hear The hour of midnight must be near... So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.
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To be infatuated with the power of one's own intellect is an accident which seldom happens but to those who are remarkable for the want of intellectual power. Whenever Nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.
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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
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Our blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are bright and full of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
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Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.
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Mercy more becomes a magistrate than the vindictive wrath which men call justice.
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The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.
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Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, to some good angel leave the rest For Time will teach thee soon the truth, there are no birds in last year's nest!
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It is true, that it is not at all necessary to love many books, in order to love them much.
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See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!
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The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do, well.
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Will without power is like children playing at soldiers.
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Great men stand like solitary towers in the city of God.
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I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
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In the long run men hit only what they aim at.
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Tomorrow is the mysterious, unknown guest.
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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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