Quotes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The adoration of his heart had been to her only as the perfume of a wild flower, which she had carelessly crushed with her foot in passing.

The holiest of holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart The secret anniversaries of the heart.

The shades of night were falling fast,As though an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,ExcelsiorHis brow was sad his eye beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior

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.

To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgement of others.

To which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.

True Tenacity is in the Uncovering of the Purpose of Existence Rather than in the Pursuit of Existence.

Trust no future, however pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act -- act in the living Present! Heart within and God overhead.

We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.

We judge ourselves by what we are capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funeral tapers May be heaven's distant lamps.

Well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak.

You know I say just what I think, and nothing more and less. I cannot say one thing and mean another.

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books

For after all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it rain.

Music is the universal language of mankind.

Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

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.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall

I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart

Every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.

A torn jacket is soon mended, but hard words bruise the heart of a child.