Frases de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Foto

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Fecha de nacimiento: 27. Febrero 1807
Fecha de muerte: 24. Marzo 1882
Otros nombres: Генри Уодсворт Лонгфелло

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow fue un poeta estadounidense que escribió trabajos que aún hoy siguen gozando de fama popular, entre los que están The Song of Hiawatha, Paul Revere's Ride y Évangéline. También escribió la primera traducción estadounidense de la Divina Comedia de Dante Alighieri y fue uno de los cinco miembros del grupo conocido como los Fireside Poets . Nació en Maine, vivió la mayor parte de su vida en Cambridge, Massachusetts, en una casa ocupada durante la Revolución Americana por el general George Washington y sus mandos.

Frases Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

„Si nosotros pudiéramos leer la historia secreta de nuestros enemigos, podríamos encontrar en la vida de cada uno de ellos tanta pena y tanto sufrimiento, que sería suficiente para desarmar cualquier hostilidad.“

„Se tarda menos en hacer una cosa bien que en explicar por qué se hizo mal.“

„Nos juzgamos a nosotros mismos por lo que no nos sentimos capaces de hacer, mientras que los demás nos juzgan por lo que hemos hecho.“

„No confíes en el futuro por más placentero que sea. Deja que el tiempo pasado entierre a sus muertos. Actúa en el presente. Recuerda que si tú te ayudas, Dios te ayudará.“

„Lo bueno en los grandes poetas de todos los países no es lo que tienen de nacional, sino de universal.“

„La perseverancia es un gran elemento del éxito, si tocas el tiempo suficiente con la fuerza necesaria la puerta, estarás seguro de despertar a alguien.“

„La mayoría de la gente tendría éxito en las pequeñas cosas si no estuviera tan preocupada por grandes ambiciones.“

„La clave del éxito depende sólo de lo que podamos hacer de la mejor manera posible.“

„El ocaso de una gran esperanza es como el ocaso del sol: con ella se extingue el esplendor de nuestra vida.“

„Después del amor, lo más dulce es el odio“

„And oft the blessed time foretells
When all men shall be free;
And musical, as silver bells,
Their falling chains shall be.“
Poems on Slavery.

„One Autumn night, in Sudbury town,
Across the meadows bare and brown,
The windows of the wayside inn
Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves
Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves
Their crimson curtains rent and thin.
As ancient is this hostelry
As any in the land may be,
Built in the old Colonial day,
When men lived in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality;
A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,
Now somewhat fallen to decay,
With weather-stains upon the wall,
And stairways worn, and crazy doors,
And creaking and uneven floors,
And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.
A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams,
Remote among the wooded hills!
For there no noisy railway speeds,
Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds;
But noon and night, the panting teams
Stop under the great oaks, that throw
Tangles of light and shade below,
On roofs and doors and window-sills.
Across the road the barns display
Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay,
Through the wide doors the breezes blow,
The wattled cocks strut to and fro,
And, half effaced by rain and shine,
The Red Horse prances on the sign.
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust
Went rushing down the county road,
And skeletons of leaves, and dust,
A moment quickened by its breath,
Shuddered and danced their dance of death,
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead
Mysterious voices moaned and fled.
These are the tales those merry guests
Told to each other, well or ill;
Like summer birds that lift their crests
Above the borders of their nests
And twitter, and again are still.
These are the tales, or new or old,
In idle moments idly told;
Flowers of the field with petals thin,
Lilies that neither toil nor spin,
And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse
Hung in the parlor of the inn
Beneath the sign of the Red Horse.
Uprose the sun; and every guest,
Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed
For journeying home and city-ward;
The old stage-coach was at the door,
With horses harnessed, long before
The sunshine reached the withered sward
Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar
Murmured: "Farewell forevermore.
Where are they now? What lands and skies
Paint pictures in their friendly eyes?
What hope deludes, what promise cheers,
What pleasant voices fill their ears?
Two are beyond the salt sea waves,
And three already in their graves.
Perchance the living still may look
Into the pages of this book,
And see the days of long ago
Floating and fleeting to and fro,
As in the well-remembered brook
They saw the inverted landscape gleam,
And their own faces like a dream
Look up upon them from below.“

„The student has his Rome, 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.“ Hyperion

„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.“ Kavanagh

„And when she was good she was very very good. But when she was bad she was horrid.“

„Out of the shdows of night
The world rolls into light.“

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