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How I do love the earth. I feel it thrill under my feet. I feel somehow as if it were conscious of my love, as if something passed into my dancing blood from it.

James Russell Lowell

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James Russell Lowell
Age: 72 †
Born: 1819
Born: February 22
Died: 1891
Died: August 12
Diplomat
Essayist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Poet
Writer
Cambridge
Massachusetts
Feet
Blood
Earth
Feel
Thrill
Feels
Passed
Something
Somehow
Love
Dancing
Conscious

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Never did Poesy appear So full of heaven to me, as when I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear To the lives of coarsest men.
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The Don Quixote of one generation may live to hear himself called the savior of society by the next.
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Did man e'er live Saw priest or woman yet forgive?
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I have always been of the mind that in a democracy manners are the only effective weapons against the bowie-knife.
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Winds wanders, and dews drip earthward Rains fall, suns rise and set Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet.
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The very gnarliest and hardest of hearts has some musical strings in it but they are tuned differently in every one of us.
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Large charity doth never soil, but only whitens soft white hands.
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Solitude is as needful to the imagination as society is wholesome for the character.
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No price is set on the lavish summer June may be had by the poorest comer.
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Certainly it is no shame to a man that he should be as nice about his country as his sweetheart, yet it would not be wise to hold everyone an enemy who could not see her with our own enchanted eyes.
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A stray hair, by its continued irritation, may give more annoyance than a smart blow.
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Our seasons have no fixed returns, Without our will they come and go At noon our sudden summer burns, Ere sunset all is snow.
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Good heavens, of what un costly material is our earthly happiness composed... if we only knew it. What incomes have we not had from a flower, and how unfailing are the dividends of the seasons.
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There is no self-delusion more fatal than that which makes the conscience dreamy with the anodyne of lofty sentiments, while the life is groveling and sensual
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The fireflies o'er the meadow In pulses come and go.
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Humbleness is always grace always dignity
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