Quote

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

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So we're all right, an' I, for one, Don't think our cause'll lose in vally By rammin' Scriptur' in our gun, An' gittin' Natur' for an ally.
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Life may be given in many ways, and loyalty to truth be sealed as bravely in the closet as the field.
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And I honor the man who is willing to sink half his present repute for the freedom to think, and, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, Will risk t' other half for the freedom to speak.
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Better one bite at forty, of truths bitter rind, than the hot wine that gushed from the vintage of twenty.
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To fail at all is to fail utterly.
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It is by presence of mind in untried emergencies that the native metal of man is tested.
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Toward no crimes have men shown themselves so cold- bloodedly cruel as in punishing differences of belief.
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Love lives on, and hath a power to bless when they who loved are hidden in the grave.
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Earth's noblest thing,-a woman perfected.
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It is only by instigation of the wrongs of men that what are called the Rights of Man become turbulent and dangerous.
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It is curious how tyrannical the habit of reading is...
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The thing we long for, that we are For one transcendent moment.
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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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The riches of scholarship, the benignities of literature, defy fortune and outlive calamity. They are beyond the reach of thief or moth or rust. As they cannot be inherited, so they cannot, be alienated.
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No sincere desire of doing good need make an enemy of a single human being that philanthropy has surely a flaw in it which cannot sympathize with the oppressor equally as with the oppressed.
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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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The fireflies o'er the meadow In pulses come and go.
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It is curious how tyrannical the habit of reading is, and what shifts we make to escape thinking. There is no bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own minds.
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