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And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.
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
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Harps
Ships
Plays
Wind
Play
Great
Sonorous
Masts
Shrouds
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.
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Ambition's cradle oftenest is its grave
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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
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Sang in tones of deep emotion Songs of love and songs of longing.
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It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.
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Each morning sees some task begin, each evening sees it close.
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Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Whoever benefits his enemy with straightforward intention that man's enemies will soon fold their hands in devotion.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail. And crying havoc on the slug and snail.
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Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.
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Well I know the secret places, And the nests in hedge and tree At what doors are friendly faces, In what hearts are thoughts of me.
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Death is better than disease.
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Fame grows like a tree if it have the principle of growth in it the accumulated dews of ages freshen its leaves.
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The natural alone is permanent.
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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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If spring came but once a century instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all the hearts to behold the miraculous change.
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Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
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Good-night! good-night! as we so oft have said Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days That are no more, and shall no more return. Thou hast but taken up thy lamp and gone to bed I stay a little longer, as one stays To cover up the embers that still burn.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Oh, what a glory doth this world put on, for him who with a fervent heart goes forth under the bright and glorious sky, and looks on duties well performed, and days well spent.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
