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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

1807-1882. U.S. poet.

Books by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Would you learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers, comprehend its mystery!

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I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.

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The course of my long life hath reached at last in fragile bark over a tempestuous sea the common harbor, where must rendered be account for all the actions of the past.

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Talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted.

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Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.

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Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.

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To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.

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Whatever poet, orator, or sage may say of it, old age is still old age.

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I venerate old age; and I love not the man who can look without emotion upon the sunset of life, when the dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broader and deeper upon the understanding.

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The secret anniversaries of the heart.

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