| Music is the universal language of mankind. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| It takes less time to do a thing right, than it does to explain why you did it wrong. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| Whatever poet, orator, or sage may say of it, old age is still old age. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgement of others. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| If you would hit the mark, you must aim a little above it; every arrow that flies feels the attraction of earth. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future, without fear. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| The student has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy, within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of an antique world and the glories of a modern one. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| If the mind, that rules the body, ever so far forgets itself as to trample on its slave, the slave is never generous enough to forgive the injury, but will rise and smite the oppressor. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| I have an affection for a great city. I feel safe in the neighbourhood of man, and enjoy the sweet security of the streets. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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| Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. |
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- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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