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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
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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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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Love
Moon
Tips
Fire
Hill
Makes
Eastern
Glimmers
Night
Forest
Rivulets
Light
Hills
Drips
Littles
Forests
Dewy
Little
Rising
Yonder
Heart
Slow
Foliage
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Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.
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Morality without religion is only a kind of dead reckoning - an endeavor to find our place on a cloudy sea by measuring the distance we have run, but without any observation of the heavenly bodies.
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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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The smoking flax before it burst to flame Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed.
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Autumn arrives like a warrior with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.
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Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends.
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God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.
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O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!
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My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea
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A coquette is a young lady of more beauty than sense, more accomplishments than learning, more charms not person than graces of mind, more admirers than friends, mole fools than wise men for attendants.
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An enlightened mind is not hoodwinked it is not shut up in a gloomy prison till it thinks the walls of its dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach of its own chain the outer verge of intelligence.
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Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start.
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People demand freedom only when they have no power.
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Books are sepulchres of thought.
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Think not because no man sees, such things will remain unseen.
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The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.
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Each day is a branch of the Tree of Life laden heavily with fruit. If we lie down lazily beneath it, we may starve but if we shake the branches, some of the fruit will fall for us.
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Simplicity in character, in manners, in style in all things the supreme excellence is simplicity.
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