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Big words do not smite like war-clubs, Boastful breath is not a bow-string, Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, Deeds are better things than words are, Actions mightier than boastings.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
Poet
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
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Taunts
Bigs
Sharp
Boastful
War
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Smite
Action
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Like
Deeds
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Boast
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!
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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 when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
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How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth and one hand.
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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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Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it.
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The mind of the scholar, if he would leave it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds.
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See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!
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Give what you have. To some one, it may be better than you dare to think.
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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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In ourselves are triumph and defeat.
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Nothing useless is, or low Each thing in its place is best And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.
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I love an author the more for having been himself a lover of books.
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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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
All was silent as before - All silent save the dripping rain.
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Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
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Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!
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I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart
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One half the world must sweat and groan that the other half may dream.
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