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Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends.
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
Silence
Friends
Best
Soul
Solitude
More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I am the Angel of the Sun Whose flaming wheels began to run When God's almighty breath Said to the darkness and the Night, Let there be light! and there was light.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
To be strong is to be happy!
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The happy should not insist too much upon their happiness in the presence of the unhappy.
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A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.
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He spoke well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The great tragedy of the average man is that he goes to his grave with his music still in him.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
An angel visited the green earth, and took a flower away.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.
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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
From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
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The world loves a spice of wickedness.
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We often excuse our own want of philanthropy by giving the name of fanaticism to the more ardent zeal of others.
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For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
