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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
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
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Longfellow
Light
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Halo
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Night
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Sleepless
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.
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It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery we build where monsters used to hide themselves.
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All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.
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Feeling is deep and still and the word that floats on the surface Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
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Youth comes but once a life time. Perhaps, but it remains strong in many for their entire lives.
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He looks the whole world in the face for he owes not any man.
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I promise myself great pleasure from my visit to England. You know I am to stay with Dickens while in London and beside his own very agreeable society, I shall enjoy that of the most noted literary men of the day, which will be a great gratification to me.
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Tis always morning somewhere.
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They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.
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Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.
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God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain over into this wilderness.
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It is difficult to know at what moment love begins it is less difficult to know that it has begun.
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Many people do not allow their principles to take root, but pull them up every now and then, as children do the flowers they have planted, to see if they are growing.
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The history of the past is a mere puppet-show. A little man comes out and blows a little trumpet, and goes in again. You look for something new, and lo! another little man comes out, and blows another little trumpet, and goes in again. And it is all over.
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Love gives itself it is not bought.
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Art is the child of Nature.
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Do not delay, Do not delay: the golden moments fly!
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If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!
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None but yourself who are your greatest foe.
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Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
