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Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.

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
Eyes
Ache
Heaven
Shed
Weather
Forget
Wake
Eye
Clouds
Heart
Sorrow
Whither
Tears
Fled
Leave
Forgets

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They are slaves who fear to speak, for the fallen and the weak.
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Slow are the steps of freedom, but her feet turn never backward.
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There are two kinds of weakness, that which breaks and that which bends.
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Men have their intellectual ancestry, and the likeness of some one of them is forever unexpectedly flashing out in the features of a descendant, it may be after a gap of several centuries. In the parliament of the present every man represents a constituency of the past.
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Not failure, but low aim, is crime.
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The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, and still fluttered down the snow.
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There is no work of genius which has not been the delight of mankind, no word of genius to which the human heart and soul have not sooner or later responded.
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Borrowed garments never keep one warm.
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All free governments, whatever their name, are in reality governments by public opinion and it is on the quality of this public opinion that their prosperity depends. It is, therefore, their first duty to purify the element from which they draw the breath of life.
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To make the common marvelous is the test of genius.
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What visionary tints the year puts on, When falling leaves falter through motionless air Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone! How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills The bowl between me and those distant hills, And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair!
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Through aisles of long-drawn centuries my spirit walks in thought.
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Things always seem fairer when we look back at them, and it is out of that inaccessible tower of the past that Longing leans and beckons.
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But better far it is to speak One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men.
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A sneer is the weapon of the weak. Like other devil's weapons, it is always cunningly ready to our hand, and there is more poison in the handle than in the point.
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Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.
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Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave?
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Did man e'er live Saw priest or woman yet forgive?
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It is the rooted instinct in men to admire what is better and more beautiful than themselves.
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