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Feeling is deep and still and the word that floats on the surface Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
Poet
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Surface
Buoys
Deep
Tossing
Feeling
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Anchor
Feelings
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Still
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Hidden
Buoy
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society.
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Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
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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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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!
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Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start.
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A handful of red sand from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought.
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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.
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Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
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Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.
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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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Whoever benefits his enemy with straightforward intention that man's enemies will soon fold their hands in devotion.
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Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need.
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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.
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All things are symbols.
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Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!
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How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth and one hand.
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Fear is the virtue of slaves but the heart that loveth is willing.
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All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.
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The rapture of pursuing is the prize the vanquished gain.
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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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