Quotes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Life like an empty dream flits by.

Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.

We waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into potions which, after all, do not immortalize, but only intoxicate.

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead.

The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

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.

O Music! language of the soul, Of love, of God to man; Bright beam from heaven thrilling, That lightens sorrow's weight.

Build today, then strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure. Shall tomorrow find its place.

Time, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry.

All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Think not because no man sees such things will remain unseen.

How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

All your strength in is your union. All your danger is in discord. Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together.

Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine.

The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal.

Talk not of wasted affection - affection never was wasted.

There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.

People of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when a little in love.

Youth, hope, and love: To build a new life on a ruined life, To make the future fairer than the past, And make the past appear a troubled dream.

When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it.

Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.

Love is a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than animate faith and love, as flowers are the animate springtide.

Something attempted, something done, Has earned a nights repose.

It is foolish to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar.