Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

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

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

There are no birds in last year's nest

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks...Stand like Druids of old.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams with its illusions, aspirations, dreams! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I feel a kind of reverence for the first books of young authors. There is so much aspiration in them, so much audacious hope and trembling fear, so much of the heart's history, that all errors and shortcomings are for a while lost sight of in the amiable self assertion of youth.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Into each life some rain must fall, some days be dark and dreary.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Trouble is the next best thing to enjoyment. There is no fate in the world so horrible as to have no share in either its joys or sorrows.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, the sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The holiest of holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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