When a great man dies, for years the light he leaves behind him, lies on the paths of men. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Chill air and wintry winds! My ear has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen,… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
We waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into potions which, after all, do not immortalize, but only… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Sail on ship of state, sail on, I union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, with all its hopes of… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, to some good angel leave the rest; For Time will teach thee soon the truth,… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
That tree is very old, but I never saw prettier blossoms on it than it now bears. That tree grows new wood… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
O little souls! as pure as white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I,… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
If spring came but once a century instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake and… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
What is time? The shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand, day and night, summer… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Ah, how wonderful is the advent of the Spring!—the great annual miracle.... which no force can stay, no violence restrain, like love,… — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
Were a star quenched on high,For ages would its light,Still travelling downward from the sky,Shine on our mortal sight. So when a… — 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
