Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ( 10 of 238 )
Romance is the poetry of literature.
Romance is the poetry of literature.
For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, read more
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.
We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.
We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.
I hear the wind among the trees
Playing the celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
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I hear the wind among the trees
Playing the celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the read more
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Listen, every one
That listen may, unto a tale
That's merrier than the nightingale.
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Listen, every one
That listen may, unto a tale
That's merrier than the nightingale.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Tales of a Wayside Inn (pt. III,),
Will without power is like children playing at soldiers.
- quoted by Thomas Babington Macaulay, The Rovers read more
Will without power is like children playing at soldiers.
- quoted by Thomas Babington Macaulay, The Rovers (act IV),
He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
In character, in manner, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity.
In character, in manner, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity.
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the read more
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
