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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
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
Poet
Professor
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Firsts
Hearts
Crushes
First
Wine
Stain
Heart
Sorrow
Stains
Constant
Afterwards
Pressure
Bitterness
Weight
Crush
Taste
Forth
Lees
Best
Brings
Vat
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Much must he toil who serves the Immortal Gods.
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Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us.
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A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.
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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.
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There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.
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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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Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.
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God is not dead nor doth He sleep ... The wrong shall fail, The right prevail, With peace on earth, good will to men.
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Method is more important than strength, when you wish to control your enemies.
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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls, The burial-ground God's-Acre.
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How like they are to human things!
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That tree is very old, but I never saw prettier blossoms on it than it now bears. That tree grows new wood each year. Like that apple tree, I try to grow a new little wood each year.
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Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.
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Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
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Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
How wonderful is the human voice! It is indeed the organ of the soul. The intellect of man is enthroned visibly on his forehead and in his eye, and the heart of man is written on his countenance, but the soul, the soul reveals itself in the voice only.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I am weary of your quarrels, Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your wranglings and dissensions
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
