John Greenleaf Whittier Quotes - Page 6

Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying.

No cloud above, no earth below, A universe of sky and snow.

The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon.

Blow, bugles of battle, the marches of peace; East, west, north, and south let the long quarrel cease; Sing the song of great joy that the angels began, Sing the glory to God and of good-will to man!

Beauty seen is never lost, God's colors all are fast.

Thanks to Allah, who gives the palm!

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn

They who wander widest lift No more of beauties' jealous veils, Than they who from their doorways see The miracle of flowers and trees.

Oh, for boyhood's painless play, sleep that wakes in laughing day, health that mocks the doctor's rules, knowledge never learned of schools.

The still, sad music of humanity.

Here Greek and Roman find themselves alive along these crowded shelves; and Shakespeare treads again his stage, and Chaucer paints anew his age.

God gives quietness at last.

I dimly guess, from blessings known, of greater out of sight.

To be saved is only this-salvation from our own selfishness.

Love hath never known a law beyond its own sweet will.

We faintly hear, we dimly see, In differing phrase we pray; But dim or clear, we own in Him The life, the truth, the way.

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!

Through this broad street, restless ever, ebbs and flows a human tide, wave on wave a living river; wealth and fashion side by side; Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick current glide.

On leaf of palm, on sedge-wrought roll; on plastic clay and leather scroll, man wrote his thoughts; the ages passed, and lo! the Press was found at last!

And close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood. And close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood.

Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress-trees Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play!

What airs outblown from ferny dells And clover-bloom and sweet brier smells.

We meet today To thank Thee for the era done, And Thee for the opening one.

God blesses still the generous thought,And still the fitting word He speeds,And Truth, at His requiring taught,He quickens into deeds.

The low green tent Whose curtain never outward swings.