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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
Soldier
Muskets
Mouths
Muzzle
Rose
Holidays
Words
Roses
Many
Soldiers
Men
Hypocrisy
Like
Holiday
Soft
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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
These stars of earth, these golden flowers.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Wreck of the Hesperus But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Will without power is like children playing at soldiers.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
All your strength is in union, all your danger is in discord.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Only a look and a voice then darkness again and silence.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The soul...is audible, not visible.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A noble type of good. Heroic womanhood.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness, the taste and stain from the lees of the vat.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Beautiful in form and feature, lovely as the day, can there be so fair a creature formed of common clay?
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
All things come round to him who will but wait.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sang in tones of deep emotion Songs of love and songs of longing.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Buried was the bloody hatchet Buried was the dreadful war-club Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. Then was peace among the nations.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Art is the child of Nature.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
