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Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!

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
Might
Regret
Visionary
Every
Hand
Guiding
World
Alone
Visionaries
Sure
Centre
Desire
Thread
Death
Cups
Hands
Fill
Ends
Suddenly
Brim

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Fortune is the rod of the weak, and the staff of the brave.
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The traitor to Humanity is the traitor most accursed Man is more than Constitutions better rot beneath the sod, Than be true to Church and State while we are doubly false to God.
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The purely Great Whose soul no siren passion could unsphere, Thou nameless, now a power and mixed with fate.
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Great truths are portions of the soul of man Great souls are portions of eternity.
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Who is it needs such flawless shafts as fate? What archer of his arrows is so choice, or hits the white so surely?
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Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed, And feeds the green earth with its swift decay, Leaving it richer for the growth of truth.
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Faith in God, faith in man, faith in work: this is the short formula in which we may sum up the teachings of the founders of New England,--a creed ample enough for this life and the next.
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Who speaks the truth stabs falsehood to the heart.
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Here come the hum the golden bees Underneath full blossomed trees, At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned.
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Comparative criticism teaches us that moral and aesthetic defects are more nearly related than is commonly supposed.
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Reading Chaucer is like brushing through the dewy grass at sunrise.
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The one thing finished in this hasty world.
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Old gold has a civilizing virtue which new gold must grow old to be capable of secreting.
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Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold.
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They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.
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Stories now, to suit a public taste, must be half epigram, half pleasant vice.
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Through aisles of long-drawn centuries my spirit walks in thought.
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The only conclusive evidence of a man's sincerity is that he gives himself for a principle. Words, money, all things else, are comparatively easy to give away but when a man makes a gift of his daily life and practice, it is plain that the truth, whatever it may be, has taken possession of him.
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Not failure, but low aim, is crime.
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Praise follows truth afar off, and only overtakes her at the grave plausibility clings to her skirts and holds her back till then
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