Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow More Quotes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow More Quotes From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wall rain fall 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. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow color names life Autumn arrives like a warrior with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow autumn warrior blood Now to rivulets from the mountains Point the rods of fortune-tellers; Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow mountain youth drinking 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. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow passion learning heart What heart has not acknowledged the influence of this hour, the sweet and soothing hour of twilight, the hour of love, the hour of adoration, the hour of rest, when we think of those we love only to regret that we have not loved them more dearly, when we remember our enemies only to forgive them. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow regret twilight sweet A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thought's of youth are long, long thoughhts Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wind love boys I am never indifferent, and never pretend to be, to what people say or think of my books. They are my children, and I like to have them liked. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow book children thinking I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow storm dark clouds Write on your doors the saying wise and old, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wise writing doors The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow bridges sight dark With many readers, brilliancy of style passes for affluence of thought; they mistake buttercups in the grass for immeasurable gold mines under ground. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow style mistake writing Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow literature heart reality In the life of every man there are sudden transitions of feeling, which seem almost miraculous. At once, as if some magician had touched the heavens and the earth, the dark clouds melt into the air, the wind falls, and serenity succeeds the storm. The causes which produce these changes may have been long at work within us, but the changes themselves are instantaneous, and apparently without sufficient cause. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow dark life fall In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow battle dumb hero There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, And left the tale half told. Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, And the lost clew regain? The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower Unfinished must remain! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow men lying fall Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow golden intelligence house How beautiful is the rain! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow dust rain beautiful Method is more important than strength, when you wish to control your enemies. By dropping golden beads near a snake, a crow once managed To have a passer-by kill the snake for the beads. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow crow snakes enemy Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow pain song sweet
