Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Zitate

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„Das Beste, was man tun kann, wenn es regnet, ist, es regnen zu lassen.“

„Musik ist die universelle Sprache der Menschheit - Poesie ist ihr universeller Zeitvertreib und ihre Freude.“

„Lern zu arbeiten und zu warten.“

„Trau der Zukunft nicht, - begraben // Lass Vergangenheit, was tot; // Freudig schaffen soll uns laben, // Herz in der Brust und über uns Gott!“

„Diejenigen, die gehen, fühlen nicht den Schmerz des Abschieds. Der zurückbleibende leidet.“

„Jeder Mensch hat seine geheimen Sorgen, die die Welt nicht kennt; und oft nennen wir einen Mann kalt, wenn er nur traurig ist.“

„Trau nicht, was die Zukunft bringt — // Was vergangen ist, sei todt — // Im lebend'gen Heute ringe, // In dir Muth und ob dir Gott!“

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

“The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.”

“Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.”

“Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us further than to-day.”

“The human voice is the organ of the soul.”

“It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun”

“The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.”

“A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

“When she was good,
She was very good indeed,
But when she was bad she was horrid.”

“Youth comes but once in a lifetime”

“Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest!”

“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.”

“For his heart was in his work, and the heart
Giveth grace unto every Art.”

“There's nothing in this world so sweet as love, and next to love the sweetest thing is hate.”

“Where'er a noble deed is wrought,
Where'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise
To higher levels rise.”

“Pandora, waking: …
I am alone. These faces in the mirrors
Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself;
They cannot help nor hinder. No one sees me,
Save the all-seeing Gods…
She lifts the lid. A dense mist rises from the chest
and fills the room. Pandora falls senseless on
the floor. Storm without.

Chorus of Dreams from the Gate of Horn: …
Fever of the heart and brain,
Sorrow, pestilence, and pain,
Moans of anguish, maniac laughter,
All the evils that hereafter
Shall afflict and vex mankind,
All into the air have risen
From the chambers of their prison;
Only Hope remains behind.”

“Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.”

“What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.”

“Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.”

“God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting.”

“All things come round to him who will but wait.”

“I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!”

“Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know erelong,—
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.”

“O suffering, sad humanity!
O ye afflicted ones, who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing, yet afraid to die,
Patient, though sorely tried!”

“Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.”

“The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep
Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath,
While underneath such leafy tents they keep
The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.”

“This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.”

“But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language,
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival,
Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes over-running with laughter,
Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"”

“There is no greater sorrow
Than to be mindful of the happy time
In misery.”