Poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Inspirational quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, and doing well whatever you do without thought of fame. If it comes at all it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after.
If I am not worth the wooing, I am surely not worth the winning.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dreamFor the soul is dead that slumbers,and things are not what they seem.Life is real Life is earnestAnd the grave is not its goalDust thou art to dust returnest,Was not spoken of the soul.
Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think.
Talk not of wasted affection affection never was wasted.
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.
Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. In is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and a manly heart.
Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future, without fear.
To which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
Trust no future, however pleasant Let the dead past bury its dead Act, - act in the living Present Heart within and God overhead.
The holiest of holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart The secret anniversaries of the heart.
Learn to labour and to wait.
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted, If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning Back to their springs, like the rain shall fill them full of refreshment That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted, If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning Back to their springs, like the rain shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
Talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted.
The adoration of his heart had been to her only as the perfume of a wild flower, which she had carelessly crushed with her foot in passing.
The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night.
Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate Still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.
Let us, then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.
To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.
Well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak.
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.
It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it.
He that respects himself is safe from others. He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.
You know I say just what I think, and nothing more and less. I cannot say one thing and mean another.
Give what you have. To some it may be better than you dare think.
Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work rather that its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as a bad heart of Procrustes turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.
All things must change to something new, to something strange.
All the means of action - the shapeless masses - the materials - lie everywhere about us. What we need is the celestial fire to change the flint into the transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius.
Age is opportunity no less than youth itself.

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The Dove
 by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

I saw a dove fear-daunted,
By howling storm-blast driven;
Where waves their power vaunted,
From land it had been riven.
No cry nor moan it uttered,
I heard no plaint repeated;
In vain its pinions fluttered --
It had to sink, defeated.
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