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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
Poet
Professor
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Writer
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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The day is dark and cold and dreary it rains, and the wind is never weary.
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For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.
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The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.
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To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.
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A spirit of criticism, if indulged in, leads to a censoriousness of disposition that is destructive of all nobler feeling. The man who lives to find faults has a miserable mission.
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A man must be of a very quiet and happy nature, who can long endure the country and, moreover, very well contented with his own insignificant person.
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I have an affection for a great city. I feel safe in the neighborhood of man, and enjoy the sweet security of the streets.
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Art is the child of Nature yes, Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her attitude, All her majestic loveliness Chastened and softened and subdued Into a more attractive grace, And with a human sense imbued. He is the greatest artist, then, Whether of pencil or of pen, Who follows Nature.
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All that is best in the great poets of all countries is not what is national in them, but what is universal.
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Ambition's cradle oftenest is its grave
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Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.
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There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.
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Do not delay, Do not delay: the golden moments fly!
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They are dead but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.
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Fear is the virtue of slaves but the heart that loveth is willing.
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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
