Quotes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

The strength of criticism lies in the weakness of the thing criticized.

Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.

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.

The sea hath its pearls The heaven hath its stars But my heart, my heart Has its love.

Every man has his secret sorrows.

But the great Master said, "I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach".

There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.

O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried!

Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!

Often times we call a man [or woman] cold when he [or she] is only sad.

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.

Torrent of light and river of air, Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen, Like gold and silver sands in some ravine Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!

Youth comes but once a life time. Perhaps, but it remains strong in many for their entire lives.

Give what you have. To some one, it may be better than you dare to think.

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

Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares!

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

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

A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society.

Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

A life that is worth writing at all is worth writing minutely.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.