Quote

What means this glory round our feet, The Magi mused, more bright than morn! And voices chanted clear and sweet, To-day the Prince of Peace is born.

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
Voice
Round
Born
Rounds
Chanted
Means
Christmas
Magi
Mean
Glory
Mused
Sweet
Morn
Feet
Prince
Clear
Voices
Peace
Bright

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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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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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Who speaks the truth stabs falsehood to the heart.
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The fireflies o'er the meadow In pulses come and go.
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It is only the intellect that can be thoroughly and hideously wicked. It can forget everything in the attainment of its ends. The heart recoils in its retired some drops of childhood's dew still linger, defying manhood's fiery noon.
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Sentiment is intellectualized emotion emotion precipitated, as it were, in pretty crystals by the fancy.
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One learns more metaphysics from a single temptation than from all the philosophers.
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They talk about their Pilgrim blood, their birthright high and holy! a mountain-stream that ends in mud thinks is melancholy.
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No price is set on the lavish summer June may be had by the poorest comer.
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Life is a sheet of paper white / Whereon each one of us may write / His word or two, and then comes night.
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The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me.
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Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary.
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The quiet tenderness of Chaucer, where you almost seem to hear the hot tears falling, and the simple choking words sobbed out.
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A profound common sense is the best genius for statesmanship.
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I who still pray at morning and at eve Thrice in my life perhaps have truly prayed, Thrice stirred below conscious self Have felt that perfect disenthrallment which is God.
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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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There is only one thing better than tradition and that is the original and eternal life out of which all tradition takes its rise.
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A nature wise With finding in itself the types of all, With watching from the dim verge of the time What things to be are visible in the gleams Thrown forward on them from the luminous past, Wise with the history of its own frail heart, With reverence and sorrow, and with love, Broad as the world, for freedom and for man.
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