Quotes
Quotes - Longfellow
In the thickets and the meadows Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa. On the summit of the lodges Sang the robin, the Opechee.
A solid man of Boston; A comfortable man with dividends, And the first salmon and the first green peas.
There's a brave fellow! There's a man of pluck! A man who's not afraid to say his say, Though a whole town's against him.
See, how the stream has overflowed Its banks, and o'er the meadow road Is spreading far and wide!
The music of the brook silenced all conversation.
Ah! what would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.
Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born, Sang with many a change, Christmas carols until morn.
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Hail to the King of Bethlehem, Who weareth in his diadem The yellow crocus for the gem Of his authority!
Well has the name of Pontifex been given Unto the Church's head, as the chief builder And architect of the invisible bridge That leads from earth to heaven.
Even cities have their graves!
See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!
By unseen hand uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven.
It takes less time to do a thing right than to explain why you did it wrong. Ralph Nichols -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years' study of books.
Write on your doors the saying wise and old, "Be bold! be bold!" and everywhere--"Be bold; Be not too bold!" Yet better the excess That the defect; better the more than less; Better like Hector in the field to die, Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly.
Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined;Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.
The strength of criticism lies in the weakness of the thing criticized.
Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
An angel with a trumpet said, "Forever more, forever more, The reign of violence is o'er!"
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he call'd the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars that on earth's firmament do shine.
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows; Old fold and young together, and children mingled among them.
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
Sleep... Oh! how I loathe those little slices of death...
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.
