Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.

Our blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are bright and full of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

Nature paints not; In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven; With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds; And flying vapors.

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.

I have an affection for a great city. I feel safe in the neighborhood of man, and enjoy the sweet security of the streets.

For his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.

The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable. The elements have no forbearance. The fire burns, the water drowns, the air consumes, the earth buries. And perhaps it would be well for our race if the punishment of crimes against the Laws of Man were as inevitable as the punishment of crimes against the Laws of Nature -were Man as unerring in his judgments as Nature.

And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

The soul...is audible, not visible.

The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy.

Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse._x000D_ _x000D_ To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing,_x000D_ _x000D_ As in a foundering ship.

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

Music is the language spoken by angels.

Out of the shadows of night_x000D_ The world rolls into light.

The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if newborn; There was nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet.

Stay, stay at home, my heart and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest.

Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.

He spoke well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.