Quotes
Quotes - Longfellow
God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.
They sing, they will pay. [Fr., Ils chantent, ils payeront.]
Sleep... Oh! how I loathe those little slices of death....
Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
The song on its mighty pinions Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven.
Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.
Listen to that song, and learn it! Half my kingdom would I give, As I live, If by such songs you would earn it.
The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat, or in the dark, gray town where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man?
As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so changes of studies a dull brain.
The mind of the scholar, if he would leave it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds.
They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!
Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep, All things within its bosom sleep! A single step, and all is o'er, A plunge, a bubble, and no more.
That beautiful season . . . the Summer of All-Saints! Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.
Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.
O summer day beside the joyous sea! O summer day so wonderful and white, So full of gladness and so full of pain! Forever and forever shalt thou be To some the gravestone of a dead delight, To some the landmark of a new domain.
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape; Trinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
After a day of cloud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And touching all the darksome woods with light, Smiles on the fields until they laugh and sing, Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring, Drops down into the night.
The swallow is come! The swallow is come! O, fair are the seasons, and light Are the days that she brings, With her dusky wings, And her bosom snowy white!
World-wide apart, and yet akin, As showing that the human heart Beats on forever as of old.
Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.
The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; . . . . The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.
I saw the long line of the vacant shore, The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, As if the ebbing tide would flow no more.
Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, And through the opening door that time unlocks Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.
