Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (February 27, 1807 March 24, 1882) was an American poet who wrote many works that are still famous today, including The Song of Hiawatha, Paul Revere's Ride and Evangeline. He also wrote the first American translation of Dante Alighieri's Inferno and was one of the five members of the group known as the Fireside Poets. Born in Maine, Longfellow lived for most of his life in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in a house occupied during the American Revolution by General George Washington and his staff.
111 Quotes (Page 2 of 2)
Silently, one by one,in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
There was a little girl, / Who had a little curl, / Right in the middle of her forehead. / When she was good, / She was very, very good, / But when she was bad she was horrid.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Between the dark and the daylight, / When the night is beginning to lower, / Comes a pause in the day’s occupation, / That is known as the Children’s Hour.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
There is no Death! What seems so is transition; / This life of mortal breath / Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, / Whose portal we call Death.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Three Silences there are: the first of speech, / The second of desire, the third of thought.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrow which the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow