Quote

When the snow is still blowing against the window-pane in January and February and the wild winds are howling without, what pleasure it is to plan for summer that is to be.

Celia Thaxter

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Celia Thaxter
Age: 59 †
Born: 1835
Born: June 29
Died: 1894
Died: August 25
Poet
Writer
Portsmouth
New Hampshire
Celia Laighton
Celia Laighton Thaxter
Stills
Winter
Pane
Still
Healing
Howling
Plan
February
Without
Summer
Blowing
Window
January
Plans
Winds
Wind
Snow
Pleasure
Wild

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O happy, happy morning! O dear, familiar place! / O warm, sweet tears of Heaven, fast falling on my face! / O well-remembered, rainy wind, blow all my care away, / That I may be a child again this blissful morn of May.
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As I work among my flowers, I find myself talking to them, reasoning and remonstrating with them, and adoring them as if they were human beings. Much laughter I provoke among my friends by so doing, but that is of no consequence. We are on such good terms, my flowers and I.
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Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget That sunrise never failed us yet.
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Already the dandelions Are changed into vanishing ghosts.
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There shall be an eternal summer in the grateful heart.
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Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sand-piper and I And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry, The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sand-piper and I.
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The eternal sound of the sea on every side has a tendency to wear away the edge of human thought and perception.
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As I hold the flower in my hand and think of trying to describe it, I realize how poor a creature I am, how impotent are words in the presence of such perfection.
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The summer day was spoiled with fitful storm At night the wind died and the soft rain dropped With lulling murmur, and the air was warm, And all the tumult and the trouble stopped.
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Ever since I could remember anything, flowers have been like dear friends to me, comforters, inspirers, powers to uplift and to cheer.
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Peacefully The quiet stars came out, one after one The holy twilight fell upon the sea, The summer day was done.
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Like the musician, the painter, the poet and the rest, the true lover of flowers is born, not made.
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When in these fresh mornings I go into my garden before any one is awake, I go for the time being into perfect happiness.
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To stand by the beds at sunrise and see the flowers awake is a heavenly delight.
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The toad has indeed no superior as a destroyer of noxious insects, and he possesses no bad habits and is entirely inoffensive himself, every owner of a garden should treat him with utmost hospitality.
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Like the musician, the painter, the poet, and the rest, the true lover of flowers is born, not made. And he is born to happiness in this vale of tears, to a certain amount of the purest joy that earth can giver her children, joy that is tranquil, innocent, uplifting, unfailing.
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This very act of planting a seed in the earth has in it to me something beautiful. I always do it with a joy that is largely mixed with awe.
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He who is born with a silver spoon in his mouth is generally considered a fortunate person, but his good fortune is small compared to that of the happy mortal who enters this world with a passion for flowers in his soul.
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Dear little head, that lies in calm content Within the gracious hollow that God made In every human shoulder, where He meant Some tired head for comfort should be laid.
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One golden day redeems a weary year
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