Quote

More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish.

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
Heart
Roots
Distant
Barbed
Would
Hearts
Root
Villages
Love
Bird
Breaking
Scattered
World
Wind
Village
Perish
Grow
Birds
Remote
Silence
Flight
Passage
Grows
Seeds
Winds
Solitudes
Take
Solitude
Passages
Wafted

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The soul never grows old.
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I cannot believe any man can be perfectly well in body, who has much labor of the mind to perform.
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My own thoughts Are my companions.
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Man is unjust, but God is just and finally justice triumphs.
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This will be a great day in our history the date of a New Revolution - quite as much needed as the old one. Even now as I write they are leading old John Brown to execution in Virginia for attempting to rescue slaves! This is sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind which will come soon!
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Listen my children and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere
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The shadows of the mind are like those of the body. In the morning of life they all lie behind us at noon we trample them under foot and in the evening they stretch long, broad, and deepening before us.
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In youth all doors open outward in old age all open inward.
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Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.
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Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe!
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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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Art is the child of Nature yes, Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her attitude, All her majestic loveliness Chastened and softened and subdued Into a more attractive grace, And with a human sense imbued. He is the greatest artist, then, Whether of pencil or of pen, Who follows Nature.
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Sometimes we may learn more from a man's errors, than from his virtues.
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Look, then, into thine heart, and write! Yes, into Life's deep stream! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright, - Be these henceforth thy theme. (excerpt from Voices of the Night)
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Fear is the virtue of slaves but the heart that loveth is willing.
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The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy.
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A boy's will is the wind's will.
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Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.
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I feel a kind of reverence for the first books of young authors. There is so much aspiration in them, so much audacious hope and trembling fear, so much of the heart's history, that all errors and shortcomings are for a while lost sight of in the amiable self assertion of youth.
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Some critics are like chimney-sweepers they put out the fire below, and frighten the swallows from their nests above they scrape a long time in the chimney, cover themselves with soot, and bring nothing away but a bag of cinders, and then sing from the top of the house as if they had built it.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow