A young critic is like a boy with a gun; he fires at every living thing he sees. He thinks only of his own skill, not of the pain he is giving. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow More Quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow More Quotes From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Make not thyself the judge of any man. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow prison judging men Into a world unknown,-the corner-stone of a nation! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow corners stones world 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. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow stars flower blue No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow tears nature sweet My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea Henry Wadsworth Longfellow marine ocean beach One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm For the country folk to be up and to arm. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow land opposites country The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow pouring air morning Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow stars air clouds The prayer of Ajax was for light. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ajax light prayer Fair words gladden so many a heart. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow fairs fairness heart Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole heaven within it. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow stars rain clouds White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow swans cities sky 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 crow crush men Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow dark night children Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow support useless lows My own thoughts Are my companions. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow companion my-own But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow rust deeds age 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. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow receiving criticism secret The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow perfect drama country No action, whether foul or fair, Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere A record, written by fingers ghostly, As a blessing or a curse, and mostly In the greater weakness or greater strength Of the acts which follow it. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow weakness done blessing
