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Love is the root of creation God's essence worlds without number Lie in his bosom like children he made them for this purpose only. Only to love and to be loved again.

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
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Writer
Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
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World
Loved
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Worlds
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Made
Number
Love
Creation

More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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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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For his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.
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It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes and roofs of villages, on woodland crests and their aerial neighborhoods of nests deserted, on the curtained window-panes of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes and harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests.
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Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.
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Be thy sleep Silent as night is, and as deep.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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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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Silence is a great peacemaker.
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The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.
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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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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.
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If you would hit the mark, you must aim a little above it.
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Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat the stronger.
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Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts.
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The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.
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O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on!
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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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Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.
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Youth comes but once a life time. Perhaps, but it remains strong in many for their entire lives.
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Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature, That fashions all her works in high relief, And that is Sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth, Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire Men, women, and all animals that breathe Are statues, and not paintings.
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The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow