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The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Fall
Weary
Sunshine
Near
Shadow
Failing
Infirm
Grow
Dreary
Grows
Fails
Age
Shadows
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls, The burial-ground God's-Acre.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape Trinkling vapors arose and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A word that has been said may be unsaid-it is but air. But when a deed is done, it cannot be undone, nor can our thoughts reach out to all the mischiefs that may follow.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Don't cross the bridge til you come to it.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I will be a man among men and no longer a dreamer among shadows. Henceforth be mine a life of action and reality! I will work in my own sphere, nor wish it other than it is. This alone is health and happiness.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The pleasant books, that silently among Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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
Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A torn jacket is soon mended but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The moon is hidden behind a cloud... On the leaves is a sound of falling rain... No other sounds than these I hear The hour of midnight must be near... So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In the long run men hit only what they aim at.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
They who go Feel not the pain of parting it is they Who stay behind that suffer.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
One half the world must sweat and groan that the other half may dream.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
And the bright faces of my young companions Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow