Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
Age is opportunity no less than youth itself.
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.
All things must change to something new, to something strange.
Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work rather that its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as a bad heart of Procrustes turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.
Give what you have. To some it may be better than you dare think.
Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think.
He that respects himself is safe from others. He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.
It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought. Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves.
Learn to labour and to wait.
Let us, then be up and doing,
Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. In is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and a manly heart.
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.
Men of genius are often dull and inert in society, as a blazing meteor when it descends to earth, is only a stone.
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted,
Talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted.
The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night.
We judge ourselves by what we are 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.
Well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak.
You know I say just what I think, and nothing more and less. I cannot say one thing and mean another.
‘Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!