The emigrant's way o'er the western desert is mark'd by Camp-fires long consum'd and bones that bleach in the sunshine. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
In December ring Every day the chimes; Loud the gleemen sing In the streets their merry rhymes. Let us by the fire… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
See yonder fire! It is the moon slow rising o'er the eastern hill. It glimmers on the forest tips, and through the… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Some critics are like chimney-sweepers; they put out the fire below, and frighten the swallows from their nests above; they scrape a… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
In the lives of the saddest of us, there are bright days like this, when we feel as if we could take… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Kind messages, that pass from land to land; Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, In which we feel the pressure… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so change of studies a dull brain. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
All the means of action -- the shapeless masses -- the materials -- lie everywhere about us. What we need is the… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape; Trinkling vapors… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
God's voice was not in the earthquake, Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature, That fashions all her works in high relief, And that is Sculpture. This vast… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
A young critic is like a boy with a gun; he fires at every living thing he sees. He thinks only of… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable.… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
In old age our bodies are worn-out instruments, on which the soul tries in vain to play the melodies of youth. But because the… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
“ Endymion The rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between.… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Nature paints not; In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven; With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds; And flying vapors. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
“ Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,— Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from Fear,… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Heights by great men reached and kept were not obtained by sudden flight but, while their companions slept, they were toiling upward in the… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Ah, how skillful grows the hand That obeyeth Love's command! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain,… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, To the regions of the home-wind,… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
