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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
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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
Service
Renders
Slug
Arms
Coat
Beetle
Even
Crow
Blackest
Good
Coats
Slugs
Men
Crying
Beetles
Mail
Snail
Crush
Havoc
Cry
Crushing
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Then followed that beautiful season... Summer.... Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.
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And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
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The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark
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Nothing that is can pause or stay / The moon will wax, the moon will wane, / The mist and cloud will turn to rain, / The rain to mist and cloud again, / Tomorrow be today.
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Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.
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Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
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Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!
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They are dead but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.
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Softly the evening came /with the sunset/.
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For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter Of the Eternal's language - on earth it is called Forgiveness!
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Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.
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The Wreck of the Hesperus But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.
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Youth wrenches the sceptre from old age, and sets the crown on its own head before it is entitled to it.
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Every author has the whole past to contend with all the centuries are upon him. He is compared with Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.
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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest of all the arts.
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I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart
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You would attain to the divine perfection.
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Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For oh, it is not always May!
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The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.
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Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.
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