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See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!
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
Fast
Yonder
Wind
Snowy
Away
Tenderly
Littles
Peaks
Little
Borne
Floats
Cloud
Clouds
Aloft
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Tis always morning somewhere.
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Today is the blocks with which we build.
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The rapture of pursuing is the prize the vanquished gain.
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What seems to us but dim funeral tapers may be heaven's distant lamps.
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Write on your doors the saying wise and old, Be bold! be bold! and everywhere - Be bold Be not too bold! Yet better the excess Than the defect better the more than less Better like Hector in the field to die, Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly.
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The mind of the scholar, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds. It is better that his armor should be somewhat bruised by rude encounters even, than hang forever rusting on the wall.
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The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark
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For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.
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Each morning sees some task begin, each evening sees it close.
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Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside.
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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
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Great men stand like solitary towers in the city of God.
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Life like an empty dream flits by.
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Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
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O Music! language of the soul, Of love, of God to man Bright beam from heaven thrilling, That lightens sorrow's weight.
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Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.
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If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
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