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How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth and one hand.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Age: 75 †
Born: 1807
Born: January 1
Died: 1882
Died: March 24
Novelist
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Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Hand
Hands
Heart
Love
Turmoil
Life
Sympathy
Mouth
Mouths
Stand
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Oh the long and dreary Winter! Oh the cold and cruel Winter!
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Beautiful in form and feature, lovely as the day, can there be so fair a creature formed of common clay?
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God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.
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In December ring Every day the chimes Loud the gleemen sing In the streets their merry rhymes. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire!
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If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!
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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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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.
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The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart The secret anniversaries of the heart, When the full river of feeling overflows- The happy days unclouded to their close The sudden joys that our of darkness start As flames from ashes swift desires that dart Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
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Give what you have. To some one, it may be better than you dare to think.
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Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame.
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Sang in tones of deep emotion Songs of love and songs of longing.
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Three silences there are: the first of speech, the second of desire, the third of thought.
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I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.
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God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain over into this wilderness.
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Love is a bodily shape and Christian works are no more than animate faith and love, as flowers are the animate springtide.
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Out of the shadows of night The world rolls into light.
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Magnificent autumn! He comes not like a pilgrim, clad in russet weeds not like a hermit, clad in gray but like a warrior with the stain of blood in his brazen mail.
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Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
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The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.
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All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
