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Fear is the virtue of slaves but the heart that loveth is willing.
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
Slaves
Slave
Willing
Virtue
Fear
Heart
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'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.
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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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Trouble is the next best thing to enjoyment there is no fate in the world so horrible as to have no share in either its joys or sorrows.
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But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.
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They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.
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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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So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.
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All that is best in the great poets of all countries is not what is national in them, but what is universal.
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How like they are to human things!
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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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For his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.
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I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.
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O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!
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It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and drenched by the rain of life.
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The hearts of some women tremble like leaves at every breath of love which reaches them, and they are still again. Others, like the ocean, are moved only by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled to rest.
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The soul never grows old.
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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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The morrow was a bright September morn The earth was beautiful as if newborn There was nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet.
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An enlightened mind is not hoodwinked it is not shut up in a gloomy prison till it thinks the walls of its dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach of its own chain the outer verge of intelligence.
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Softly the evening came /with the sunset/.
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