Quote

By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven.

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
Clouds
Apparel
Heaven
Blown
White
Floats
Hands
Abroad
Light
Cloud
Unseen
Wafted
Sunset
Uplifted
Solitary
Yonder

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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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Write on your doors the saying wise and old, Be bold! be bold! and everywhere - Be bold Be not too bold! Yet better the excess Than the defect better the more than less Better like Hector in the field to die, Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly.
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Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.
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If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!
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O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?
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The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.
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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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Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside.
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I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.
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Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need.
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I am weary of your quarrels, Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your wranglings and dissensions
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I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it. I stand in awe of my own opinion. The secret demerits of which we alone, perhaps, are conscious, are often more difficult to bear than those which have been publicly censured in us, and thus in some degree atoned for.
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