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The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.
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
Press
Country
Ridden
Priest
Priests
Presses
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
They are dead but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Love is the root of creation God's essence worlds without number Lie in his bosom like children he made them for this purpose only. Only to love and to be loved again.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
All things come round to him who will but wait.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
There are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Death is better than disease.
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Music is the universal language of mankind.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail. And crying havoc on the slug and snail.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn Something with passion clasp, or perish And in itself to ashes burn.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Some poems are like the Centaurs--a mingling of man and beast, and begotten of Ixion on a cloud.
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The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Life like an empty dream flits by.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
