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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.
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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Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
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More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy.
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A boy's will is the wind's will.
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If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!
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Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.
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Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.
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Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!
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Do not delay, Do not delay: the golden moments fly!
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Life is the gift of God, and is divine.
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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.
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Out of the shadows of night The world rolls into light.
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The soul...is audible, not visible.
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My own thoughts Are my companions.
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A handful of red sand from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought.
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If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
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And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
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The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, and doing well whatever you do without thought of fame. If it comes at all it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after.
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Sang in tones of deep emotion Songs of love and songs of longing.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone. Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world seems but a dim reflection - itself a broader shadow. We look forward into the coming lonely night. The soul withdraws into itself. Then stars arise, and the night is holy.
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It is the heart and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain.
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The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
