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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
Novelist
Poet
Professor
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Women
Leaves
Still
Easily
Lulled
Heart
Hearts
Tremble
Every
Ocean
Reaches
Love
Moved
Sensibility
Like
Rest
Breath
Others
Breaths
Stills
Storm
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After a day of cloud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And touching all the darksome woods with light, Smiles on the fields until they laugh and sing, Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring, Drops down into the night.
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Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice.
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I do not love thee less for what is done, And cannot be undone. Thy very weakness Hath brought thee nearer to me, and henceforth My love will have a sense of pity in it, Making it less a worship than before.
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Time is the life of the soul.
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Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes in our hearts once more The rose of youth restore? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time and change, and for a single hour Renew this phantom-flower?
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Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us.
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'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.
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He spoke well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
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Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath.
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More and more do I feel, as I advance in life, how little we really know of each other. Friendship seems to me like the touch of musical-glasses--it is only contact but the glasses themselves, and their contents, remain quite distinct and unmingled.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The story, from beginning to end, I found again in a heart of a friend.
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When Christ ascended Triumphantly from star to star He left the gates of Heaven ajar.
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My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.
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Love gives itself it is not bought.
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No man is so poor as to have nothing worth giving.
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I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.
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It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes and roofs of villages, on woodland crests and their aerial neighborhoods of nests deserted, on the curtained window-panes of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes and harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
