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How can I teach your children gentleness and mercy to the weak, and reverence for life, which in its nakedness and excess, is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, when by your laws, your actions and your speech, you contradict the very things I teach?

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
Translator
Writer
Portland
Maine
Henry W. Longfellow
H. W. Longfellow
00018405207 IPI
Longfellow
Law
Excess
Action
Reverence
Stills
Mercy
Still
Actions
Nakedness
Children
Laws
Contradict
Things
Weak
Omnipotence
Life
Speech
Gleam
Teach
Gentleness

More quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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One half the world must sweat and groan that the other half may dream.
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Man is always more than he can know of himself consequently, his accomplishments, time and again, will come as a surprise to him.
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Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.
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Mine is the Month of Roses yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The foliage of the valleys and the heights. Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights The mower's scythe makes music to my ear I am the mother of all dear delights I am the fairest daughter of the year.
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I feel a kind of reverence for the first books of young authors. There is so much aspiration in them, so much audacious hope and trembling fear, so much of the heart's history, that all errors and shortcomings are for a while lost sight of in the amiable self assertion of youth.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast.
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There rises the moon, broad and tranquil, through the branches of a walnut tree on a hill opposite. I apostrophize it in the words of Faust O gentle moon, that lookest for the last time upon my agonies! --or something to that effect.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Buried was the bloody hatchet Buried was the dreadful war-club Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. Then was peace among the nations.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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How wonderful is the human voice! It is indeed the organ of the soul. The intellect of man is enthroned visibly on his forehead and in his eye, and the heart of man is written on his countenance, but the soul, the soul reveals itself in the voice only.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Build today, then strong and sure, With a firm and ample base And ascending and secure. Shall tomorrow find its place.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Tis always morning somewhere.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Morality without religion is only a kind of dead reckoning - an endeavor to find our place on a cloudy sea by measuring the distance we have run, but without any observation of the heavenly bodies.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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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.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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A coquette is a young lady of more beauty than sense, more accomplishments than learning, more charms not person than graces of mind, more admirers than friends, mole fools than wise men for attendants.
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O Music! language of the soul, Of love, of God to man Bright beam from heaven thrilling, That lightens sorrow's weight.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon, In the round-tower of my heart, And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in the dust away!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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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