Quotes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

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

The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night.

Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

In character, in manner, in style, in all the things, the supreme excellence is simplicity

And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said; "For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!" Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: "God is not dead, nor doth he sleep! The Wrong shall fail, the Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!

Look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back again. Wisely improve the present, it is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.

The heart, like the mind, has a memory. And in it are kept the most precious keepsakes.

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, and silently steal away.

If you would hit the mark, you must aim a little above it; Every arrow that flies feels the attraction of earth.

Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.

Perserverence is a great element of success. If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody.

Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye.

Work is my recreation, The play of faculty; a delight like that Which a bird feels in flying, or a fish In darting through the water,--Nothing more.

O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be!

And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox.

O thou sculptor, painter, poet! Take this lesson to thy heart: That is best which lieth nearest; Shape from that thy work of art.

Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending.

For his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.

From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.

The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.

The rapture of pursuing is the prize the vanquished gain.