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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes
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''We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.''
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), U.S. poet. Kavanagh, bk. 1, ch. 1 (1849).
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''It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves.''
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), U.S. poet. one of the meditations of Mr. Churchill, inscribed on his pulpit, in Kavanagh, bk. 1, ch. 13 (1849).
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''The Mormons make the marriage ring, like the ring of Saturn, fluid, not solid, and keep it in its place by numerous satellites.''
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), U.S. poet. repr. In Complete Works, vol. 1 (1886). "Table-Talk," Drift-Wood (1857 edition).
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''The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.''
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), U.S. poet. repr. In Complete Works, vol. 1 (1886). "Table-Talk," Drift-Wood (1857).
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''Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.''
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), U.S. poet. Kavanagh, bk. 1, ch. 13 (1849). One of the meditations of Mr. Churchill, inscribed on his pulpit.
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''Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.''
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), U.S. poet. Kavanagh, bk. 1, ch. 13 (1849). One of the meditations of Mr. Churchill, inscribed on his pulpit.
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A Psalm Of Life
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 art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the ...
Memories
Oft I remember those I have known
In other days, to whom my heart was lead
As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
But absent, and their memories overgrown
With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
As graves with grasses are, and at their head
The stone with moss and lichens so o'er spread,
Nothing is legible but the name alone.
And is it so with them? After long years.
