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I cannot believe any man can be perfectly well in body, who has much labor of the mind to perform.

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
Well
Much
Mind
Perform
Believe
Perfectly
Men
Labor
Cannot
Body
Wells

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The heart, like the mind, has a memory. And in it are kept the most precious keepsakes.
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Stars of earth, these golden flowers emblems of our own great resurrection emblems of the bright and better land.
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None but yourself who are your greatest foe.
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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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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.
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The strength of criticism lies in the weakness of the thing criticized.
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The great tragedy of the average man is that he goes to his grave with his music still in him.
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Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice.
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I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
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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.
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Mine is the Month of Roses yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The foliage of the valleys and the heights. Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights The mower's scythe makes music to my ear I am the mother of all dear delights I am the fairest daughter of the year.
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The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
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Joy, temperance, and repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose.
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Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the flowers, Kind deeds are the fruits, Take care of your garden And keep out the weeds, Fill it with sunshine, Kind words, and Kind deeds.
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I have an affection for a great city. I feel safe in the neighborhood of man, and enjoy the sweet security of the streets.
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Oh the long and dreary Winter! Oh the cold and cruel Winter!
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No action, whether foul or fair, Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere A record, written by fingers ghostly, As a blessing or a curse, and mostly In the greater weakness or greater strength Of the acts which follow it.
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Even He that died for us upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mindful of His mother, as if to teach us that this holy love should be our last worldly thought - the last point of earth from which the soul should take its flight for heaven.
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If we could read the secret history of our enemies.
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With many readers, brilliancy of style passes for affluence of thought they mistake buttercups in the grass for immeasurable gold mines under ground.
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