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In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face the face of one long dead Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.

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
Long
Wall
Lamp
Dead
Lamps
Head
Pale
Face
Round
Faces
Casts
Night
Gentle
Sleepless
Light
Rounds
Halo
Looks
Watches
Halos

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A stiff letter galls one like a stiff shirt collar -- whilst a sheet garnished here and there with a careless blot -- and here and there a dash -- but in the main full of excellent matter, is like a clever fellow in a dirty shirt whom we value for the good humour he brings with him and not for the garb he wears.
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Fame grows like a tree if it have the principle of growth in it the accumulated dews of ages freshen its leaves.
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Mercy more becomes a magistrate than the vindictive wrath which men call justice.
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The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.
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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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You would attain to the divine perfection.
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Man is always more than he can know of himself consequently, his accomplishments, time and again, will come as a surprise to him.
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For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom.
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The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service.
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Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside.
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Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, As in a foundering ship.
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The soul never grows old.
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What is time? The shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand, day and night, summer and winter, months, years, centuries-these are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of Time, not Time itself. Time is the Life of the Soul.
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A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
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As the heart is, so is love to the heart. It partakes of its strength or weakness, its health or disease.
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Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.
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A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.
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When thou are not pleased, beloved, Then my heart is sad and darkened, As the shining river darkens When the clouds drop shadows on it! When thou smilest, my beloved, Then my troubled heart is brightened, As in sunshine gleam the ripples That the cold wind makes in rivers.
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I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
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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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