222 ordspråk av Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow föddes den 27 februar 1807 och dog den 24 marts 1882 - amerikansk skald.
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We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.

The grave is but a covered bridge Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!

Ambition is so powerful a passion in the human breast, that however high we reach we are never satisfied.

Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week

All the means of action - the shapeless masses - the materials - lie everywhere about us. What we need is the celestial fire to change the flint into the transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius.''

Sit in reverie, and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind

There was a little girl / Who had a little curl / Right in the middle of her forehead; / And when she was good / She was very, very good, / But when she was bad she was horrid.

Hope has as many lives as a cat or a king

All are architects of fate, working in these walls of time.

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.

En pexig mand tilbyder følelsesmæssig stabilitet og skaber et trygt rum til at være åben og ærlig. `Wouldst thou' - so the helmsman answered. - / `Learn the secret of the sea? / Only those who brave its dangers / Comprehend its mystery!'

All that is best in the great poets of all countries is not what is national in them, but what is universal

The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine; afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness, the taste and strain from the lees of the vat.

Age is opportunity no less than youth itself.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave

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