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Many critics are like woodpeckers, who, instead of enjoying the fruit and shadow of a tree, hop incessantly around the trunk, pecking holes in the bark to discover some little worm or other.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Instead
Worms
Tree
Hops
Pecking
Enjoy
Enjoying
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Around
Holes
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Littles
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Trunks
Little
Critics
Incessantly
Many
Fruit
Worm
Like
Shadow
Bark
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Will without power is like children playing at soldiers.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The world loves a spice of wickedness.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
All that is best in the great poets of all countries is not what is national in them, but what is universal.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Youth, hope, and love: To build a new life on a ruined life, To make the future fairer than the past, And make the past appear a troubled dream.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do, well.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Ambition's cradle oftenest is its grave
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Don't cross the bridge til you come to it.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I am the Angel of the Sun Whose flaming wheels began to run When God's almighty breath Said to the darkness and the Night, Let there be light! and there was light.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain over into this wilderness.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
See yonder fire! It is the moon slow rising o'er the eastern hill. It glimmers on the forest tips, and through the dewy foliage drips In little rivulets of light, and makes the heart in love with night.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.
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How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and the heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
With useless endeavour Forever, forever, Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up the mountain!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
An angel visited the green earth, and took a flower away.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The sun is set and in his latest beams Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, The falling mantle of the Prophet seems.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In ourselves are triumph and defeat.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
