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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

1807-1882. U.S. poet.

Books by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When a great man dies, for years the light he leaves behind him, lies on the paths of men.

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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, are merely shadows cast by outward things on stone or canvas, having in themselves no separate existence. Architecture, existing in itself, and not in seeming a something it is not, surpasses them as substance shadow.

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It is a beautiful trait in the lovers character, that they think no evil of the object loved.

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Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, to some good angel leave the rest; For Time will teach thee soon the truth, there are no birds in last year's nest!

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A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.

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For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, the sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

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Love gives itself; it is not bought.

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It is foolish to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar.

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Nature is a revelation of God; Art a revelation of man.

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Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. In is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and a manly heart.

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