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The market-place, the eager love of gain, Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain!
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
Gain
Gains
Market
Whose
Pain
Place
Eager
Ends
Vanity
Love
Aim
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The rapture of pursuing is the prize the vanquished gain.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The great tragedy of the average man is that he goes to his grave with his music still in him.
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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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Stars of earth, these golden flowers emblems of our own great resurrection emblems of the bright and better land.
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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!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Youth comes but once a life time. Perhaps, but it remains strong in many for their entire lives.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.
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My own thoughts Are my companions.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Authors have a greater right than any copyright, though it is generally unacknowledged or disregarded. They have a right to the reader's civility. There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it, and to these the author has a claim. Yet many people think that when they buy a book they buy with it the right to abuse the author.
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Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.
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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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Perhaps the greatest lesson which the lives of literary men teach us is told in a single word* Wait!
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Silence is a great peacemaker.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest of all the arts.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter Of the Eternal's language - on earth it is called Forgiveness!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Joy, temperance, and repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Success is not something to wait for, it is something to work for.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail. And crying havoc on the slug and snail.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
