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More and more do I feel, as I advance in life, how little we really know of each other. Friendship seems to me like the touch of musical-glasses--it is only contact but the glasses themselves, and their contents, remain quite distinct and unmingled.

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
Feels
Musical
Really
Touch
Life
Friendship
Contents
Like
Quite
Distinct
Seems
Advance
Littles
Glasses
Little
Contact
Feel
Remain

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It is the heart and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain.
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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.
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Beautiful in form and feature, lovely as the day, can there be so fair a creature formed of common clay?
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Learn to labour and to wait.
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Tomorrow is the mysterious, unknown guest.
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Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.
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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
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Some poems are like the Centaurs--a mingling of man and beast, and begotten of Ixion on a cloud.
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In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.
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Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.
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Nature is a revelation of God Art a revelation of man.
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The pleasant books, that silently among Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces!
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The rapture of pursuing is the prize the vanquished gain.
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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.
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Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.
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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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