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I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.

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
Form
Forests
Wells
Bright
Foretell
Well
Storm
Teeming
Many
Seasons
Folded
Love
Clouds
Storms
Forms
April
Coming
Forest
Dark
Season

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Gone are the birds that were our summer guests.
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Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat the stronger.
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The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed.
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God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.
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Man is unjust, but God is just and finally justice triumphs.
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Method is more important than strength, when you wish to control your enemies. By dropping golden beads near a snake, a crow once managed To have a passer-by kill the snake for the beads.
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They who go Feel not the pain of parting it is they Who stay behind that suffer.
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What else remains for me? Youth, hope and love To build a new life on a ruined life.
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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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The foods that prolong life and increase purity, vigour, health, cheerfulness, and happiness are those that are delicious, soothing, substantial and agreeable... Foods that are bitter, sour, salt, over-hot, pungent, dry and burning produce unhappiness, repentance and disease.
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In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!
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Whatever poet, orator, or sage may say of it, old age is still old age.
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Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
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Joy, temperance, and repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose.
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Mine is the Month of Roses yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The foliage of the valleys and the heights. Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights The mower's scythe makes music to my ear I am the mother of all dear delights I am the fairest daughter of the year.
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Every author has the whole past to contend with all the centuries are upon him. He is compared with Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.
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The things that have been and shall be no more, The things that are, and that hereafter shall be, The things that might have been, and yet were not, The fading twilight of joys departed.
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Trouble is the next best thing to enjoyment there is no fate in the world so horrible as to have no share in either its joys or sorrows.
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