Quotes
Quotes - Longfellow
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. 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.
It is Lucifer, The son of mystery; And since God suffers him to be, He, too, is God's minister, And labors for some good By us not understood.
Tell your master that if there were as many devils at Worms as tiles on its roofs, I would enter.
Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole heaven within it.
Into each life some rain must fall, some days be dark and dreary.
One half the world must sweat and groan that the other half may dream.
'Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.
Your supper is like the Hidalgo's dinner; very little meat, and a great deal of tablecloth.
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance. . . . . And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
None but yourself who are your greatest foe.
In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.
Sometimes we may learn more from a man's errors, than from his virtues.
It takes less time to do a thing right than it does to explain why you did it wrong.
Sometimes we may learn more from a man's error than from his virtues.
Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.
Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave us behind Footprints on the sands of time.
What else remains for me? Youth, hope and love; To build a new life on a ruined life.
Since yesterday I have been in Alcala. Erelong the time will come, sweet Preciosa, When that dull distance shall no more divide us; And I no more shall scale thy wall by night To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now.
A face that had a story to tell. How different faces are in this particular! Some of them speak not. They are books in which not a line is written, save perhaps a date.
These faces in the mirrors Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself.
The light upon her face Shines from the windows of another world. Saints only have such faces.
Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime. And, departing, leave behind us footprints on the sands of time.
For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion, That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble, Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
Feet that run on willing errands!
