Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

thumb|right| Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (27 February 1807 – 24 March 1882) was an American poet and one of the five members of the group known as the Fireside Poets. Quotes thumb|They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest. thumb|Music is the universal language of mankind — poetry their universal pastime and delight. The warriors that fought for their country, and bled,Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim;They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast,And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest. "The Battle of Lovell's Pond," first published in the Portland Gazette (November 17, 1820). Music is the universal language of mankind — poetry their universal pastime and delight. Outre-Mer (1835). Stars of the summer night!Far in yon azure deeps,Hide, hide your golden light!She sleeps!My lady sleeps! The Spanish Student, Act I, sc. iii, serenade (1843). Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch! while in slumbers light She sleeps. The Spanish Student, Act I, sc. iii, serenade (1843). She floats upon the river of his thoughts. The Spanish Student, Act II, sc. iii (1843). Never here, forever there,Where all parting, pain, and care,And death, and time shall disappear,—Forever there, but never here!The horologe of EternitySayeth this incessantly,—"Forever — never!Never — forever!" The Old Clock on the Stairs, st. 9 (1845). I shot an arrow into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where. The Arrow and the Song, st. 1 (1845). And the song, from beginning to end,I found again in the heart of a friend. The Arrow and the Song, st. 3. In the valley of the Pegnitz, where, across broad meadow-lands,Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremburg, the ancient, stands.Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng. Nuremburg (1846). Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies; Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artist never dies. Nuremburg (1846). Where'er a noble deed is wrought,Where'er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts in glad surpriseTo higher levels rise. Santa Filomena, st. 1 (1857). St. Augustine! well hast thou said,That of our vices we can frameA ladder, if we will but treadBeneath our feet each deed of shame! The Ladder of St. Augustine, st. 1 (1858). thumb|The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight,But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night. The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight,But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night. The Ladder of St. Augustine, st. 10. The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleepWave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath,While underneath such leafy tents they keepThe long, mysterious Exodus of Death. The Jewish Cemetery at Newport, st. 2 (1858). A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. My Lost Youth, refrain (1858), quoting Olaus Sirma A Lady with a Lamp shall standIn the great history of the land,A noble type of good,Heroic womanhood. Santa Filomena, st. 10 (1858). Ye are better than all the balladsThat ever were sung or said;For ye are living poems,And all the rest are dead. Children, st. 9 (1858). 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. The Children's Hour, st. 1 (1860). thumb|I hear in the chamber above meThe patter of little feet,The sound of a door that is opened,And voices soft and sweet. I hear in the chamber above meThe patter of little feet,The sound of a door that is opened,And voices soft and sweet. The Children's Hour, st. 2 (1860). I heard a voice that cried, "Baldur the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!" "The Death of Baldur", in Thomas Bulfinch, Poetry of the Age of Fable (Boston, J.E. Tilton & Co., 1863), p. 241 Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks,And through the opening door that time unlocksFeel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep. "To-morrow", in The Atlantic Monthly, vol. 17, no. 103 (May 1866), p. 552 Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,Rising and reaching upward to the skies;Listen to voices in the upper air,Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries. The Castle-builder, st. 4 (1873). He speaketh not; and yet there liesA conversation in his eyes. The Hanging of the Crane (1874) p. 31 In the long, sleepless watches of the night,A gentle face — the face of one long dead —Looks at me from the wall, where round its headThe night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. The Cross of Snow (1879). Great is the art of beginning, but greater the art is of ending;Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse. Elegiac Verse, st. 14 (1879). There was a little girl,Who had a little curl,Right in the middle of her forehead.When she was good,She was very good indeed,But when she was bad she was horrid. There Was a Little Girl, reported in B. R. T. Machetta, Home Life of Longfellow (1882) p. 90 Often misquoted as "When she was good/She was very, very good". O Bells of San Blas in vainYe call back the Past again;The Past is deaf to your prayer!Out of the shadows of nightThe world rolls into light;It is daybreak everywhere. The Bells of San Blas, st. 11 (March 15, 1882). He that respects himself is safe from others; he wears a coat of mail that none can pierce. Michael Angelo (published posthumously), in Poetical Works (Houghton Mifflin Co, 1887), p. 316 Perseverance is a great element of success. If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody. Samuel Longfellow (ed.) Final Memorials (Boston: Ticknor and Co., 1887) Ch. 19: Table-Talk Books are sepulchres of thought. Wind over the Chimney, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). This is the place. Stand still, my steed,—Let me review the scene,And summon from the shadowy pastThe forms that once have been. A Gleam of Sunshine, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). The leaves of memory seemed to makeA mournful rustling in the dark. The Fire of Drift-wood, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). The surest pledge of a deathless nameIs the silent homage of thoughts unspoken. The Herons of Elmwood, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). He has singed the beard of the king of Spain. The Dutch Picture, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Voices of the Night (1839) Look, then, into thine heart, and write! Prelude, st. 19. I heard the trailing garments of the NightSweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with lightFrom the celestial walls! Hymn to the Night, st. 1. There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,And, with his sickle keen,He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,And the flowers that grow between. The Reaper and the Flowers, st. 1. Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,The Reaper came that day;'Twas an angel visited the green earth,And took the flowers away. The Reaper and the Flowers, st. 7. The star of the unconquered will. The Light of Stars, st. 7. Oh, fear not in a world like this,And thou shalt know erelong,—Know how sublime a thing it isTo suffer and be strong. The Light of Stars, st. 9. Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. Flowers, st. 1. The hooded clouds, like friars,Tell their beads in drops of rain. Midnight Mass, st. 4. A Psalm of Life thumb|right|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. 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. St. 1. 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. St. 2. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Finds us further than to-day. St. 3. Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave. St. 4. cf. Andrew Marvell, Upon the Death of Lord Hastings (1649): "Art indeed is long, but life is short". Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act, act in the living present!Heart within, and God o'erhead! St. 6. Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time; St. 7. Footprints, that perhaps another, Travelling o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. St. 8. Let us, then, be up and doing.With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labor and to wait. St. 9. Hyperion (1839) thumb|Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and with a manly heart. Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hoursWeeping upon his bed has sate,He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers. Bk. I, Epigraph. Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn;Something with passion clasp, or perish And in itself to ashes burn. Bk. II, Epigraph. "Ah! this beautiful world!" said Flemming, with a smile. "Indeed, I know not what to think of it. Sometimes it is all gladness and sunshine, and Heaven itself lies not far off. And then it changes suddenly; and is dark and sorrowful, and clouds shut out the sky. In the lives of the saddest of us, there are bright days like this, when we feel as if we could take the great world in our arms and kiss it. Then come the gloomy hours, when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor in our hearts; and all without and within is dismal, cold, and dark. Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad." Bk. III, Ch. 4. In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer. Bk. IV, Ch. 7. Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and with a manly heart. Bk. IV, Ch. 8. Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number. Bk. IV, Ch. 8. I know a maiden fair to see,Take care!She can both false and friendly be,Beware! Beware!Trust her not,She is fooling thee. From the German. Ballads and Other Poems (1842) Thus, seamed with many scarsBursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior's soul,Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!—Thus the tale ended. The Skeleton in Armor, st. 20. No one is so accursed by fate,No one so utterly desolate,But some heart, though unknown,Responds unto his own. Endymion, st. 8. thumb|Into each life some rain must fall,Some days must be dark and dreary. Thy fate is the common fate of all;Into each life some rain must fall,Some days must be dark and dreary. The Rainy Day, originally in Bentley's Miscellany (Dec. 1841) p. 626 I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which callsThe burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;It consecrates each grave within its walls,And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre, st. 1. Standing, with reluctant feet,Where the brook and river meet,Womanhood and childhood fleet! Maidenhood, st. 3. O thou child of many prayers!Life hath quicksands; life hath snares! Maidenhood, st. 9. The shades of night were falling fast,As through an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,  Excelsior! Excelsior, st. 1. In happy homes he saw the lightOf household fires gleam warm and bright. Excelsior, st. 3. "Try not the Pass!" the old man said;"Dark lowers the tempest overhead." Excelsior, st. 4. "O stay," the maiden said, "and restThy weary head upon this breast!" Excelsior, st. 5. "Beware the pine tree's withered branch!Beware the awful avalanche!" Excelsior, st. 6. A traveller, by the faithful hound,Half-buried in the snow was found. Excelsior, st. 8. For Time will teach thee soon the truth,There are no birds in last year's nest! It is not always May, st. 6. The prayer of Ajax was for light. The Goblet of Life, st. 9. O suffering, sad humanity!O ye afflicted ones, who lieSteeped to the lips in misery,Longing, yet afraid to die,Patient, though sorely tried! The Goblet of Life, st. 11. The Village Blacksmith thumb|right| The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands. Under a spreading chestnut-treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands. St. 1. His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate'er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man. St. 2. 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. St. 7. The Wreck of the Hesperus thumb|It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company. It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company. St. 1. "O father! I see a gleaming light.Oh say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he. St. 12. And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost the vessel sweptToward the reef of Norman's Woe. St. 15. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe! St. 22. The Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems (1845) Were half the power that fills the world with terror,Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,Given to redeem the human mind from error,There were no need of arsenals and forts. The Arsenal at Springfield, st. 9. I stood on the bridge at midnight,As the clocks were striking the hour,And the moon rose o'er the city,Behind the dark church-tower. The Bridge, st. 1. The Day is Done The day is done, and the darknessFalls from the wings of Night,As a feather is wafted downwardFrom an eagle in his flight. St. 1. A feeling of sadness and longing,That is not akin to pain,And resembles sorrow onlyAs the mist resembles the rain. St. 3. Come, read to me some poem,Some simple and heartfelt lay,That shall soothe this restless feeling,And banish the thoughts of day. St. 4. Not from the grand old masters,Not from the bards sublime,Whose distant footsteps echoThrough the corridors of Time. St. 5. Read from some humbler poet,Whose songs gushed from his heart,As showers from the clouds of summer,Or tears from the eyelids start. St. 7. And the night shall be filled with music,And the cares, that infest the day,Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,And as silently steal away. St. 11. Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie (1847) thumb|This is the forest primeval. This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Prelude. Alike were they free fromFear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners;There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. Part I, section 1. When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. Part I, section 1. Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. Part I, section 3. Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returningBack to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. Part II, section 1. Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. Part II, section 1. And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler,Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. Part II, section 5. Kavanagh: A Tale (1849) thumb|To most men only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous and the perpetual exercise of God's power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be. thumb|Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think. We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done. Chapter 1. Ah, how wonderful is the advent of spring! — the great annual miracle of the blossoming of Aaron's rod, repeated on myriads and myriads of branches! — the gentle progression and growth of herbs, flowers, trees, — gentle and yet irrepressible, — which no force can stay, no violence restrain, like love, that wins its way and cannot be withstood by any human power, because itself is divine power. If spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change! But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity. To most men only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous and the perpetual exercise of God's power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be. Chapter 13. I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it. I stand in awe of my own opinion. The secret demerits of which we alone, perhaps, are conscious, are often more difficult to bear than those which have been publicly censured in us, and thus in some degree atoned for. Chapter 30. Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think. Chapter 30. Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee. Chapter 30 (last lines). The Seaside and the Fireside (1850) All are architects of Fate,Working in these walls of Time. The Builders, st. 1. Nothing useless is, or low;Each thing in its place is best;And what seems but idle showStrengthens and supports the rest. The Builders, st. 2. In the elder days of Art,Builders wrought with greatest careEach minute and unseen part;For the gods see everywhere. The Builders, st. 5. God sent his Singers upon earthWith songs of sadness and of mirth,That they might touch the hearts of men,And bring them back to heaven again. The Singers, st. 1. But the great Master said, "I seeNo best in kind, but in degree;I gave a various gift to each,To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. The Singers, st. 6. O holy trust! O endless sense of rest!Like the beloved JohnTo lay his head upon the Saviour's breast,And thus to journey on! Hymn, For my Brother's Ordination, st. 5. My soul is full of longingFor the secret of the Sea,And the heart of the great oceanSends a thrilling pulse through me. The Secret of the Sea, st. 10. Resignation There is no flock, however watched and tended,But one dead lamb is there!There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,But has one vacant chair! St. 1. The air is full of farewells to the dying,And mournings for the dead. St. 2. But oftentimes celestial benedictionsAssume this dark disguise. St. 3. What seem to us but sad, funereal tapersMay be heaven's distant lamps. St. 4. There is no Death! What seems so is transition;This life of mortal breathIs but a suburb of the life elysian,Whose portal we call Death. St. 5. Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,She lives whom we call dead. St. 7. The Building of the Ship Build me straight, O worthy Master!Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel,That shall laugh at all disaster,And with wave and whirlwind wrestle! Lines 1-4. For his heart was in his work, and the heartGiveth grace unto every Art. Line 7. And see! she stirs!She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feelThe thrill of life along her keel,And, spurning with her foot the ground,With one exulting, joyous bound,She leaps into the ocean's arms! Lines 349-354. Sail forth into the sea of life,O gentle, loving, trusting wife,And safe from all adversityUpon the bosom of that seaThy comings and thy goings be!For gentleness and love and trustPrevail o'er angry wave and gust;And in the wreck of noble livesSomething immortal still survives. Line 368. And in the wreck of noble livesSomething immortal still survives. Lines 375-376. Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, O Union, strong and great!Humanity with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate! Lines 378-382. Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,Are all with thee,—are all with thee! Lines 396-399. The Golden Legend (1851) thumb|right|Time has laid his handUpon my heart, gently, not smiting it,But as a harper lays his open palmUpon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. Time has laid his handUpon my heart, gently, not smiting it,But as a harper lays his open palmUpon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. Pt. IV, The Cloisters. Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher. Pt. IV, The Cloisters. The grave itself is but a covered bridge,Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness! Pt. V, A Covered Bridge at Lucerne. I think I have proved, by profound researches,The error of all those doctrines so viciousOf the old Areopagite Dyonisius,That are making such terrible work in the churches,By Michael the Stammerer sent from the East,And done into Latin by that Scottish beast,Erigena Johannes, who dares to maintain,In the face of the truth, the error infernal,That the universe is and must be eternal;At first laying down, as a fact fundamental,That nothing with God can be accidental;Then asserting that God before the creationCould not have existed, because it is plainThat, had he existed, he would have created;Which is begging the question that should be debated,And moveth me less to anger than laughter.All nature, he holds, is a respirationOf the Spirit of God, who, in breathing hereafterWill inhale it into his bosom again,So that nothing but God alone will remain. Pt. VI, A travelling Scholastic affixing his Theses to the gate of the College. The Song of Hiawatha (1855) The Song of Hiawatha Thus departed Hiawatha,Hiawatha the Beloved,In the glory of the sunset,In the purple mists of evening,To the regions of the home-wind,Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin,To the Islands of the Blessed,To the Kingdom of Ponemah,To the Land of the Hereafter! Pt. XXII, Hiawatha's Departure, st. 29. Table-Talk (1857) First published in the Blue and Gold edition of Drift-Wood (1857) thumb|right|Divine madness enters more or less into all our noblest undertakings. thumb|If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility. Don Quixote thought he could have made beautiful bird-cages and toothpicks if his brain had not been so full of ideas of chivalry. Most people would succeed in small things, if they were not troubled with great ambitions. A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child. Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work, rather than its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as the bad heart of Procrustes turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture. We often excuse our own want of philanthropy by giving the name of fanaticism to the more ardent zeal of others. Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, — but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite. As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so change of studies a dull brain. The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable. The elements have no forbearance. The fire burns, the water drowns, the air consumes, the earth buries. And perhaps it would be well for our race if the punishment of crimes against the Laws of Man were as inevitable as the punishment of crimes against the Laws of Nature, — were Man as unerring in his judgments as Nature. Round about what is, lies a whole mysterious world of might be, — a psychological romance of possibilities and things that do not happen. By going out a few minutes sooner or later, by stopping to speak with a friend at a corner, by meeting this man or that, or by turning down this street instead of the other, we may let slip some great occasion of good, or avoid some impending evil, by which the whole current of our lives would have been changed. There is no possible solution to the dark enigma but the one word, "Providence". "Let us build such a church, that those who come after us shall take us for madmen," said the old canon of Seville, when the great cathedral was planned. Perhaps through every mind passes some such thought, when it first entertains the design of a great and seemingly impossible action, the end of which it dimly foresees. This divine madness enters more or less into all our noblest undertakings. Here Longfellow is translating or paraphrasing an expression attributed to a canon of Seville, also quoted as "we shall have a church so great and of such a kind that those who see it built will think we were mad". 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 short-comings are for a while lost sight of in the amiable self-assertion of youth. Authors have a greater right than any copyright, though it is generally unacknowledged or disregarded. They have a right to the reader's civility. There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it, and to these the author has a claim. Yet many people think that when they buy a book they buy with it the right to abuse the author. Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple. When we reflect that all the aspects of Nature, all the emotions of the soul, and all the events of life, have been the subjects of poetry for hundreds and thousands of years, we can hardly wonder that there should be so many resemblances and coincidences of expression among poets, but rather that they are not more numerous and more striking. The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine; afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness, — the taste and stain from the lees of the vat. The tragic element in poetry is like Saturn in alchemy, — the Malevolent, the Destroyer of Nature ; but without it no true Aurum Potabile, or Elixir of Life, can be made. If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility. Drift-wood. QuoteInvestigator (Aug. 19, 2019) The Courtship of Miles Standish (1858) If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me,Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me?If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning! Pt. III, The Lover's Errand. Singing the Hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem. Pt. III, The Lover's Errand. But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language,Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival,Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes over-running with laughter,Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" Pt. III, The Lover's Errand. God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting. Part IV, John Alden. Into a world unknown,—the corner-stone of a nation. Part V, The Sailing of the May flower (referring to Plymouth Rock). It is the fate of a womanLong to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless,Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Part VI, Priscilla. He is a little chimney and heated hot in a moment. Part VI, Priscilla. Tales of a Wayside Inn (1863–1874) thumb|Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere. Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need. Pt. I, Prelude, l. 221. Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year. Pt. I, The Landlord's Tale: Paul Revere's Ride, st. 1. One, if by land, and two, if by sea;And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farmFor the country folk to be up and to arm. Pt. I, The Landlord's Tale: Paul Revere's Ride, st. 2. And yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night. Pt. I, The Landlord's Tale: Paul Revere's Ride, st. 8. All things come round to him who will but wait. Pt. I, The Student's Tale: The Falcon of Ser Federigo, last line. At all feasts where ale was strongest Sat the merry monarch longest, First to come and last to go. Pt. I, The Musician's Tale: The Saga of King Olaf (King Olaf's Return, st. 12). And suddenly through the drifting brumeThe blare of the horns began to ring. Pt. I, The Musician's Tale: The Saga of King Olaf (King Olaf's War-Horns, st. 2). Stronger than steel is the sword of the Spirit;Swifter than arrows, the light of the truth;Greater than anger is love that subdueth. Pt. I, The Musician's Tale: The Saga of King Olaf (The Nun of Nidaros, st. 9). A town that boasts inhabitants like meCan have no lack of good society. Pt. I, The Poet's Tale: The Birds of Killingworth, st. 6. His form was ponderous, and his step was slow;There never was so wise a man before;He seemed the incarnate "Well, I told you so!" Pt. I, The Poet's Tale: The Birds of Killingworth, st. 9. Our ingress into the worldWas naked and bare;Our progress through the worldIs trouble and care;Our egress from the worldWill be nobody knows where;But if we do well hereWe shall do well there;And I could tell you no more,Should I preach a whole year! Pt. II, The Student's Tale: The Cobbler of Hagenau, st. 5. Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and died,In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide,Ships went to sea, and ships came home from sea,And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be. Pt. II, Lady Wentworth, st. 6. Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. Pt. III, The Theologian's Tale: Elizabeth, sec. 4. Morituri Salutamus (1875) Let him not boast who puts his armor onAs he who puts it off, the battle done.Study yourselves; and most of all note wellWherein kind Nature meant you to excel.Not every blossom ripens into fruit. St. 11. And now, my classmates; ye remaining fewThat number not the half of those we knew,Ye, against whose familiar names not yetThe fatal asterisk of death is set,Ye I salute! St. 13. The scholar and the world! The endless strife,The discord in the harmonies of life!The love of learning, the sequestered nooks,And all the sweet serenity of books;The market-place, the eager love of gain,Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain! St. 23. Ah, nothing is too lateTill the tired heart shall cease to palpitate. St. 24. For age is opportunity no lessThan youth itself, though in another dress,And as the evening twilight fades awayThe sky is filled with stars, invisible by day. St. 25. The Masque of Pandora and Other Poems (1875) The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1891) pp. 250-256. And dimly seen, a tangled mass    Of Walls and woods of light and shade Stands beckoning up the Stelvio pass    Varenna, with its white cascade. I ask myself, Is this a dream?    Will it all vanish into air? Is there a land of such supreme    And perfect beauty anywhere! Cadenabbia, sts. 8 and 9. The Masque of Pandora Hermes: Much must he toil who serves the Immortal Gods. Chorus of the Eumenides:With useless endeavourForever, forever,Is Sisyphus rollingHis stone up the mountain! Pandora: [waking]I am alone. These faces in the mirrorsAre but the shadows and phantoms of myself;They cannot help nor hinder. No one sees me,Save the all-seeing Gods...She lifts the lid. A dense mist rises from the chestand fills the room. Pandora falls senseless onthe floor. Storm without. Chorus of Dreams from the Gate of Horn:Fever of the heart and brain,Sorrow, pestilence, and pain,Moans of anguish, maniac laughter,All the evils that hereafterShall afflict and vex mankind,All into the air have risenFrom the chambers of their prison;Only Hope remains behind. Chorus of the Eumenides:Never by lapse of timeThe soul defaced by crimeInto its former self returns again;For every guilty deedHolds in itself the seedOf retribution and undying pain.Never shall be the lossRestored, till HeliosHath purified them with his heavenly fires;Then what was lost is won,And the new life begun,Kindled with nobler passions and desires. Kéramos, and Other Poems (1878) thumb|right|Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must change To something new, to something strange. Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must changeTo something new, to something strange;Nothing that is can pause or stay;The moon will wax, the moon will wane,The mist and cloud will turn to rain,The rain to mist and cloud again,To-morrow be to-day. Kéramos, st. 3. Cf. The Tempest, act 1, sc. 2 Thine was the prophet's vision, thineThe exaltation, the divineInsanity of noble minds,That never falters nor abates,But labors and endures and waits,Till all that it foresees it findsOr what it can not find creates. Kéramos, st. 9. Art is the child of Nature; yes,Her darling child, in whom we traceThe features of the mother's face,Her aspect and her attitude,All her majestic lovelinessChastened and softened and subduedInto a more attractive grace,And with a human sense imbued.He is the greatest artist, then,Whether of pencil or of pen,Who follows Nature. Kéramos, st. 29. What land is this? Yon pretty town Is Delft, with all its wares displayed:The pride, the market-place, the crown And centre of the Potter's trade. Kéramos, line 66. She knew the life-long martyrdom,The weariness, the endless painOf waiting for some one to comeWho nevermore would come again. Vittoria Colonna, st. 6. Three Silences there are: the first of speech,The second of desire, the third of thought;This is the lore a Spanish monk, distraughtWith dreams and visions, was the first to teach. The Three Silences of Molinos. The holiest of all holidays are thoseKept by ourselves in silence and apart;The secret anniversaries of the heart,When the full river of feeling overflows. Holidays. Decoration Day (1882) Published in The Atlantic (June 1882) Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest On this Field of the Grounded Arms, Where foes no more molest, Nor sentry’s shot alarms! Ye have slept on the ground before, And started to your feet At the cannon’s sudden roar, Or the drum’s redoubling beat. But in this camp of Death No sound your slumber breaks; Here is no fevered breath, No wound that bleeds and aches. All is repose and peace, Untrampled lies the sod; The shouts of battle cease, It is the Truce of God! Rest, comrades, rest and sleep! The thoughts of men shall be As sentinels to keep Your rest from danger free. Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours. Translations Hospitality sitting with Gladness. From Frithiof's Saga, canto 3 (1857) There is no greater sorrowThan to be mindful of the happy timeIn misery. From Dante, Inferno, canto v, line 121 (1867) Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small;Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all. Retribution, from Friedrich von Logau, Sinngedichte, III, 2, 24 Quotes about Longfellow I would like to ask you if you have ever read what I consider the greatest of poems of the United States—that is, Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha ... And then through that poem you have descriptions of Indian life and Indian legends which to me are of inexpressible beauty; and I do not hesitate to say, as far as my reading has led me to judge, that that is a poem that deserves to live, and will live; and at this moment it is the finest poem of any length that has been produced by any writer of the United States. John Bright, speech in Birmingham Town Hall (June 1, 1882), quoted in William Robertson, Life and Times of the Right Hon. John Bright (1883), p. 525 I wish I had known you, Longfellow, but truly I did, as a small reader with a book cracked wide, speaking aloud on the old wooden stairs of my grandparents' home, saying your words, between the daylight and the dark, swinging them like small lanterns which have brought me to this place by your bed on a late day in June, in your yellow house by the giant linden tree, still wondering at words and the length of a mattress. Naomi Shihab Nye, Voices in the Air (2018) Another poem that appeals to all bold, courageous souls in "The Warning," by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who, some critics aver, won more English hearts over to the anti-slavery cause than did the "Quaker Poet. Katherine D. Tillman, The Negro among Anglo-Saxon Poets (1898) External links Henry+Wadsworth+Longfellow Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The Online Books Page (University of Pennsylvania) Longfellow Christmas Carol: I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day Category:Poets from the United States Category:19th-century poets from the United States Category:Romantic poets Category:Novelists from the United States Category:Translators from the United States Category:Abolitionists Category:1807 births Category:1882 deaths Category:People from Maine