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In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.
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
Rose
Holidays
Words
Roses
Many
Soldiers
Men
Hypocrisy
Like
Holiday
Soft
Soldier
Muskets
Mouths
Muzzle
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
With many readers, brilliancy of style passes for affluence of thought they mistake buttercups in the grass for immeasurable gold mines under ground.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Nature paints not In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds And flying vapors.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
People demand freedom only when they have no power.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is dark and cold and dreary it rains, and the wind is never weary.
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
We often excuse our own want of philanthropy by giving the name of fanaticism to the more ardent zeal of others.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
God is not dead nor doth He sleep ... The wrong shall fail, The right prevail, With peace on earth, good will to men.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
With useless endeavour Forever, forever, Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up the mountain!
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!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The pleasant books, that silently among Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
